The Winter Wolf
by bob the kraken
Summary: "My name is the North; Snow." Half of Westeros burned, the other frozen. Jon made a deal with the Enemy for a chance to return and change it all. Only problem is, he's brought part of the Enemy with him. No longer White, but a Winter Wolf! Winter is Here and Ice has prevailed, but legends never die...White-WalkerJon!UnhingedJon!Timetravel AU! Multiple legends from GRRM Work!
1. Chapter 1

Eddard Stark looked down at the report on his desk and checked over his map of the North. The area surrounding the Wolfswood was smattered with ink dots. A trail of them led from Winterfell, along the river that led into the Wolfswood, Crofter's Village, and a few dotting the Kingsroad.

Another cluster of bandits dead with no trace of their killer. The witnesses all said the same thing; a sudden drop in temperature followed by a freezing mist. Then came a hooded figure dressed in black, steel shattering like glass, and blue stars for eyes. He would always vanish as quickly as he arrived, leaving the ones he saved behind without so much as a word; disappearing into the freezing mists, before the weather cleared and the snow stopped falling.

The Lord of Winterfell closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The patterns and description matched all previous reports. This was getting out of hand. The smallfolk were talking, bandit raids had decreased as a whole, and other Lords were asking questions he had no clue how to answer. Then again, this was something he doubted anyone would have an answer for. A knock on the door, followed by his bark of "Enter." And Jory Cassel stepped into his solar.

"My Lord." Jory said with a bow of his head.

"Jory." Ned answered back.

Jory's lips pressed into a tight line when he said, "The search party has just returned, my Lord. There's no sign of him."

The Warden of the North closed his eyes as disappointment, worry, and anger all surged through him. "Thank you, Jory." Ned told his bannerman with a nod.

"My Lord?" Jory asked hesitantly. When Lord Stark looked back up at him, he said, "It's been almost a year, my Lord. We've combed as much of the Wolfswood as possible without encroaching on other Lord's lands, our best hunters and trackers have failed, and the men are getting more and more restless at the prospect of what we are looking for."

"Speak plainly, Jory." Eddard Stark rumbled.

"My Lord, we've searched almost every day. No one can find him, and we always seem to be ten steps behind when he appears. The other Houses are talking, as are the smallfolk. They are growing restless."

Ned stared at Cassel with an intense frown and narrowed eyes, "He is my blood, Jory." Ned Stark growled, "I will not rest until I bring him back."

"My Lord, he doesn't want to be found. Even if we do find him..." Here, Jory paused And visibly collected himself, "After...after what happened, should he be brought back to Winterfell?"

There was a pause before Ned Stark scowled, "Return to your post, Cassel. I will not hear any more of this."

Jory bowed his head in deference with an "Aye, my Lord." and left his solar. Ned let out a sigh from the depths of his soul and sank back into his chair. His eyes scanned the markings on the map to see if he could make out some sort of pattern for what felt like the hundredth time, and gave up when he once again failed to do so. He was tired. So very, very tired. A lack of sleep from worry saw to that; fretful nights staring out the window from an empty bed. He and Catelyn were still sleeping in separate rooms. His children had grown distant with him as well; Robb spending most of his time in the training yard, Arya hiding in the woods, Bran silent and sullen. Even Sansa was affected in her own way. She was quieter, much quieter. Theon was, too. Only little Rickon was unaffected; and he was merely a small boy. Ned dragged a hand over his face. His desperate prayers in the Godswood had gone unanswered when he begged to know what exactly happened on the day everything went to the seven hells.

_-Jon staggered into the great hall with blood leaking from marks on his face and gashes in his tunic. For a moment, they locked eyes, and his nephew had gotten out a weak "Father?" With blood dribbling down his lips before he collapsed to the stone floor. Ned had screamed his name and practically leapt over the table to get to Lyanna's boy, Robb at his heels, with others running to Jon's side-_

-"_He will live, my Lord." Luwin said the minute he stepped out of the room. Ned let out a shaky sigh and nearly collapsed in relief. The old maester continued on, "It is strange, my Lord. Such wounds should be fatal, but young Jon lives. It...it is a miracle." The old maester muttered-_

_-"What happened? Did someone try to kill Jon?" Robb asked with an expression of mingled fear and fury. It was one Ned shared. He said, "All of Winterfell and Wintertown are being searched for a culprit as we speak. The guards are on high alert. No one is to leave the castle." Ned told his son, as well as Arya, Sansa, Theon, and Bran behind him. Catelyn was there, too, holding Rickon in her arms and her expression blank. Ned continued, "You will all be escorted under guard at all times until this is resolved. If the killer still resides in these walls, I want you all protected."-_

_-"Say again, Jory?" Ned demanded. Jory grimaced and repeated himself, "My Lord, everyone who saw Jon said he was hale and hearty throughout the morning. One of the servants saw him begin to stagger just before he reached the hall. There's blood right before the entrance. Everyone who saw him say no one was with him before he entered. No one was even __near_ _him."-_

_-"Jon!" Ned beamed in relief as all the pent up stress and anxiety __evaporated __upon seeing his nephew alive on the bed. Bloody rags boiled in hot water to prevent infection covered the stab wounds that had been sewn shut by Luwin's stitches. By all accounts, the maester had admitted Jon should be dead, but Ned merely thanked the gods and focused only on that the boy was alive. The moment Ned walked into the room, Jon's eyes shot open wide and he turned his head to look at him in a way that made him freeze. The deep scratches on Jon's face had scabbed over, and the red lines on his pale face emphasized the lost and wild look in his dark eyes that pierced Ned's very soul. He'd seen eyes like that before on men after a bloody battle, when the only thing breaking the silence were the screams of the wounded and the smell of death filling the air. Jon's eyes were old, haunted, and shadowed; the eyes of one who had seen too much war, death, and horror._

_ His nephew should not have those eyes._

_ Ned just stared at Jon, and Jon stared back. There seemed to be no recognition in his gaze. It was like Ned was in the room with a stranger and not his nephew. Not his sister's son; the blood of his blood. Ned swallowed passed the dry lump in his throat, and called, "Jon?"_

_ Jon's mouth worked for a moment, and he blinked. The building tension in the air Ned hadn't even known was there vanished. Jon's smile was as flimsy as summer ice, and he said "Hello, Father."-_

_-Arya said the words softly, as if she was worried someone might hear, "Father, something's wrong with Jon." She told him one quiet afternoon. It had been a week since Luwin declared Jon to be able to move freely again. The boy had made a miraculous recovery, and against Luwin's wishes, had went right back to training with the sword. No suspect for the attack on his life had been found, and Jon had told them he could not remember anyone attacking him that day, either. Ned looked at Arya and then out towards the training yard where his nephew stood alone in front of a practice dummy. A sword was in his hands but he had not swung it at all since he arrived. He just stood there, still as a statue._

_ "He doesn't talk to anyone anymore. He's always in the Godswood or in the crypts." Arya said, "And he won't talk to me or Robb about what happened to him." His daughter sounded hurt and distressed when she sent a look in Jon's direction. The boy still had not moved and was just standing there, staring at the dummy. Then Arya whispered, "It's-it's like a part of him died." _

_Ned looked sharply back at Arya, who seemed to be on the verge of tears, and bent down to pull her into a hug. "Arya, Jon is alive." He told her, "He was badly hurt, but something like that can change someone. Give him time. He'll come round." He wanted to believe those words. He really did. Especially when he heard a loud crack of splitting wood, and looked up to see Jon had suddenly decapitated the dummy with a single stroke of his sword-_

_-"Your bastard was in the library today." Catelyn said out of the blue. Ned froze from undoing his tunic and stared at his Lady Wife. She was brushing her hair before her nightstand mirror without meeting his eyes. _

_ "Oh." Was all Ned could say. Catelyn rarely spoke of Jon at all unless put upon. He asked, "Did something happen?" _

_ "No." She replied, "He was reading about the Targaryen dynasty, as well as a few other old tomes." She said distractedly. A complex fist of panic and fear gripped his heart for a moment before he quelled his nerves and looked towards his wife. She never waivered in her brushing, nor did she meet his eyes, but stared into her own reflection with a stony expression that was marred by the distracted furrow of her brow. "He is still going to the Wall, yes?" She asked him directly._

_ "Jon has not said anything otherwise." Ned rumbled, "Why?" He asked, confused and a bit worried at Catelyn's behavior. Cat said nothing for a moment, before she finally put down her brush and stared at it with a complicated expression, "He asked me to watch over the others when he is gone. He told me...he told me he cares for us all, even if I may not believe him...including me." Cat stared into the fire with various emotions playing across her face. Ned stared at her. Silence filled their bedchambers for a long moment, until Ned decided to break it. He said, "Perhaps he has heard that Yoren is passing through Winterfell and hopes to ask him to join the Watch early?"_

_ "Perhaps." Catelyn said after a moment. Another passed before she rose and headed to bed. Ned followed her, but sleep did not come easy that night. He needed to talk to Jon, and soon-_

_-The next morning, Jon shattered Theon Greyjoy's practice sword into pieces. Jon's behavior had rapidly changed over the course of the month, but the strangest, and by far the most worrying, was Jon had refused to spar with anyone. Instead, he turned his dulled blade on the practice dummies and targets, damn near hacking them all to pieces. Rodrick Cassel had made some odd comments about Jon as well, stating that the boy's whole fighting style had changed overnight; shaped up and sharpened into that of a seasoned warrior's. It was something his Master of Arms had tried to investigate further, but Jon always had an excuse when Rodrick began digging for answers. Jon also avoided to sparring with Robb and Theon, with was beyond concerning for all who knew him._

_That morning, Theon had approached the Bastard of Winterfell and openly, and loudly, challenged him to a spar. When Jon declined, he tried to goad him further. When Jon declined further, Theon insulted him. When Jon flat out refused him and turned to leave, Theon had called him a coward on top of a bastard. Jon had froze in his tracks, according to witnesses, and stood there long enough for people to wonder if Theon had finally pushed Jon Snow too far. Ned hadn't known if something happened between them, but since Jon had recovered, he avoided the Ironborn like the plague. All he'd been told was that Jon had strode over to seize a practice sword and marched towards the Greyjoy heir with death in his eyes. Rodrick had seen the change in Jon and called for a stop, but Jon was on Theon before his Master at Arms could get the words out. __The bout was over, quick and brutal, with Jon disarming Theon in seconds and sending him to the ground with a bloody lip. Jon had dropped his sword and stormed off, ignoring Ser Rodrick's demands for him to return and explain himself. Theon was having none of it. He rose and went for Jon with the practice blade still in his hand, and swung for Jon's back. Jon had turned and caught the dulled steel on his raised arm; an instinctive move to keep it from hitting his face._

_ The length of metal shattered against his forearm like glass._

_ Theon had stumbled but quickly righted himself and stared, dumbfounded. For a long moment, everyone had stopped and stared. Jon stared too, at his arm, with a look that had been described as utterly horrified. Then he had ran. Later, they said the metal shards had been coated with frost-_

_-Ned froze when he saw the cloaked figure standing in front of Lyanna's tomb, illuminated only by the torch he held. A deep voice rumbled through the crypts. _

_ "You lied to me."_

_ The voice was familiar, but the cadence was not, and the words damn near froze his heart in his chest. The man turned. _

_ It was Jon. _

_ "Jon?" He muttered. His first instinct was to berate his nephew for the fact he had disappeared for the whole day. Jon had vanished after the incident in the training yard, and no one, not even Arya Underfoot, could find him. Night had fallen and Ned had gone to the crypts after the Godswood had brought him no solace, but now? Something was off about Jon, something that Ned could not put his finger on._

_ "You lied to me." Jon repeated, and Ned discovered part of what had unsettled him. His nephew's voice was deeper, rougher; the voice of a man. What in the seven hells was happening? _

_ "Jon," Ned called and walked towards his unrecognized nephew "Please, talk to me! Ever since Luwin said you've healed, you've changed, Jon. You're scaring all of us. Your siblings, too-"_

_ "Cousins." _

_ Ned stopped dead in his tracks. _

_ "What?" He whispered._

_ Jon turned fully to face him, and Ned realized with a shock that the boy had aged. He looked a man grown; not__ by much in height, but he saw it from how he met the lads eyes and how his shoulders were broader, his arms thicker, his forehead more pronounced, and his nose and chin fuller. What was more, Ned saw that the rough scruff that adorned Jon's face had thickened into a full beard and mustache. Even the way he held himself was different. He stood with the countenance of a Lord, straight-backed and unyielding, not the downcast eyes and head of the bastard of Winterfell. Jon's eyes were the only thing that hadn't changed; they were still dark and shadowed._

_ And angry. _

_ "And you-" Jon spoke the words as if they tore at his throat like they did at Ned's heart, "-Are not my father! You are my uncle!"_

_ For a moment, Ned stood rooted to the spot. He could do nothing, say nothing, __think__ nothing! A numb horror had swept through him, paralyzing him in place like the bite of a Dornish viper while his nephew unraveled the lie he'd been placed in for protection before his very eyes._

_ "I may not have your name but I have your blood, that's what you told me!" Jon shouted at him. Jon's eyes, Lyanna's eyes, reflected the torchlight; wide, hurt, furious, and something __else__. "You lied! You were the most honorable man I knew, and you lied to me! To your Lady Wife! To everyone! I do have a name, Uncle, and it is not Jon or Snow! It's Aegon Targaryen!" Jon's voice cracked at the end. His eyes were wet, and his face was set in a combination of rage, guilt, remorse, and regret. _

_ "Who told you?" Came his horrified whisper._

_ Jon continued on, "My mother was Lyanna Stark! My father was Rheagar Targaryen! I am the __rightful __heir to the Iron Throne!" He yelled the words as if he could not believe them. Jon was crying, now; hot tears splashed down his cheeks and wet the ground._

_ "WHO TOLD YOU!?" Ned roared in shock, anguish, and grief. _

_ It was the wrong thing to say._

_ Jon...changed. The tears stopped, his face went eerily blank, and his frame stiffened. A cold wind swept through the crypts and guttered Ned's torch. For an instant, Ned swore Jon's eyes were blue._

_ "That's what you can only think to ask? Who told me?" Jon said quietly. His nephew stared at him, hard and sharp, before he said "Bran did."_

_ "What?" Ned breathed, dumbfounded._

_ "Bran told me." Jon repeated in a steady, matter-of-fact tone of voice "When he had became the Three-Eyed-Raven. He told me when I returned to Winterfell with Dany...my aunt. Daenerys Targaryen. Her dragon Viserion was killed by the Night King and the Wall had fallen to the Others while Cersei Lannister sat the Iron Throne!" Jon hissed the words out with a deadly finality. _

_ Ned stared at his nephew. What in the seven hells-_

_ "Everyone was dead when it was over." Jon said, "Everyone. I was the last of my family...both of them." He choked out. "Westeros was either frozen from winter or scorched by wildfire...she attacked us while we fended off the Others. Arya got her, in the end though. Everyone died, father...everyone. It was just me and the Night King...we would have killed each other, but..." Here, Jon visibly snarled, "That Red Witch!" He spat before yelling, "She was burning everything! She set off the casks of Cersei's wildfire! Smuggled whatever else she could get her hands on and planted it all over the Seven Kingdoms! Burning it all for her Lord of Light! She left a trail of ashes behind her as she made her way North again. She...she wanted to be there when it happened...when I became her god's chosen. The Prince That Was Promised. Azor Ahai..." Jon chuckled mirthlessly. It was a cold and empty sound; one that chilled Ned to the bone. "There was nothing left to burn, when she found us. I don't know how she did it. Magic, I suppose...she's a withered hag without her necklace, you know that? Bet Stannis didn't..." Jon trailed off, heaving for breath and staring at the statue of his mother. "We made a deal, him and I." Came Jon's feverish whispers, "There was nothing left, and he was once a Stark..."_

_ "Jon..." Ned croaked. He felt sick. Had Jon gon mad? What was happening? Mayhaps, he himself had gone mad and this was all one terrible delusion. Or nightmare. _

_ "He could have it all, but I got a second chance." Jon breathed. Another cold wind swept through the crypt, and Ned suddenly realized that the cold he was feeling was not just from Jon's words. The temperature was dropping inside the crypt, his breath was coming out in steam, and his torch was flickering against the cold. Slowly, his nephew turned to look at him. Jon's eyes reminded Ned of cracked ice on a lake; hard, but one wrong move would shatter it all. _

_ "I'm going to stop the coming wars, Uncle." He told Ned seriously "The King's children aren't his children. Don't go South or else you'll lose your head, Arya disappears, and Sansa is taken hostage by Joffrey if you bring them. Don't trust Littlefinger, either! Or the Ironborn. The Greyjoy's are rebuilding the Iron Fleet. Please, uncle...father," Jon's voice broke again, "Don't let Robb die as King in the North! Don't let Bran fall and keep Rickon safe! Lady Stark, too. The dead are marching on the Wall, father...I must go. I was given a chance and I must take it!"_

_ The darkness seemed to be swallowing them. Ned stepped towards Jon as his torch guttered lower and the air grew colder. He could swear he saw hoarfrost coating the ground around Jon's feet. _

_"Jon!" He cried out. He had a terrible feeling all of a sudden, that if he let this madness continue, he'd loose Jon forever, "What are you talking about!? What wars? What deal?" Because that last part was the one thing that caught his attention. __The way Jon had sounded when he said it made it seem like he had done something terrible for an even worse price. _

_ "I gave him part of me, so that he could live." Jon said hollowly, and looked at Ned, "But I took some of him in return, to go back. He's in my head, now. I know things, father, things no man should know..." _

_ The cold was coming from Jon, now. Facing his nephew was like facing a winter breeze. The chilling winds sweeping through the crypts seemed to emanate from Jon, not the entrance. His torch finally gave out, and they were plunged into darkness. Within the black, two glowing blue eyes opened from where Jon stood._

_ Ned ran for his nephew. _

_ "JON!" He screamed._

_ "Goodbye, father." _

_ There was the rush of someone running past him at incredible speed, and Ned's glove closed around empty air._

_ And Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, v__anished into the night-_

Since that day, Ned had dedicated all of Winterfell's forces to finding Jon. No explanation as to what happened, just a mass order of all guardsmen and able-bodied men to find Jon Snow and bring him home. They never found him. Someone had said that they had seen a cloaked figure running out of Winter Town towards the Wolfswood that night, but there had been hide nor hair of his nephew. Cat had finally had enough and demanded an answer from him. Overwhelmed by everything that had happened with Jon in the past month and shaken by what had happened in the crypts, Ned told her. He told her _everything. _To say that Cat had not taken it well was a grave understatement. She had hurt her _nephew, _her goodsister's babe, Lyanna's boy. Family, Duty, Honor; the words of house Tully, and she felt she had sullied those words with how she had treated Jon. Then, there was the matter of their own children. He could at least spare them the truth. All he told them was that Jon had vanished, and that they were looking for him.

Then, about three weeks after Jon's disappearance, the reports came in. Brigands, bandits, and highwaymen that roamed the expanse of the North turning up dead all over the place. Any survivors or witnesses all reported the same thing; black cloak, steel shattering, cold mists, and blue eyes in the dark. Later, it was said a direwolf was at his side. It had to be Jon. He was causing quite a stir with other Noble houses as well. The other neighboring Houses were asking questions as to the rumors surrounding the killings. Ned had no answers, nor did he want to give any. If the other Nobles found out...truth be told, he had no idea of what would happen if the other Nobles found out the truth of this. Nothing like this had ever happened before! No mattered what happened, however, he had to protect his nephew.

_"Promise me, Ned...promise me..."_

No matter what Jon had become.

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**Wow...i wrote all of that in one night. I am writing this with 3 hours until work starts on a Monday. Boy am i smart, but again, Idk where this all came from. Seriously.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hey, looks like I'm back! And I didn't stay up till 2am on a Monday this time! Huzzah! To those who Followed, Favorited, and Reviewed...thank you. Seriously. It really, really means a lot to me to see (not to sound pretentious) my work appreciated, but enough of that. Notes at the bottom. Onto the story!**_

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Jon called it Tumbledown Tower. He did not know if it had a proper name, but it was a rather fitting title, given the state of the old watchtower. The stones that formed it had fallen from their places and it was overgrown with moss and ivy, although the vault still stood. What he did know was that it had been abandoned for a long time and there were no villages nearby, which made it a perfect place to hide. It was still within the borders of Stark land, so he was still close to Winterfell in case of...well, he just wanted to stay close to his family if he was being honest. To Sansa, Bran, and Arya. To Robb, Rickon, and...uncle? Father? Jon's mind was still torn in two over what to call the Lord Stark. Part of him wanted to scream, rage, and cry at the Lord of Winterfell for his lies. The other wanted to ignore it all and embrace the man who had raised him.

Jon pushed past his warring emotions and just focused on climbing.

The night was moonless with the stars in abundance overhead. His hands, colder than the Wall itself, froze and stuck to the stonework to help him climb the inner wall of the tower up to the loft. The stairs had rotted away and there was no ladder, so Jon improvised. From there, he hauled himself up and carefully walked towards a gaping hole in the wall that had once been an arrow-slit, and stared out into the night. From here, he could see nothing but the shadows of treetops stretching out into the dark, but when he focused inward, deeper, and let that blizzard of cold and dark power fill him, he could see so much more. The night hid no secrets from him. It was his ally, now, and every shadow yielded their secrets under his blue gaze. He saw, more than felt, the heartbeats of animals in the surrounding woods; saw the flame of their life-force and fought back the twisted urge to extinguish it all. He had been fighting the urges that came with what he now was ever since he came to in the hall with bloody wounds from the future as his body began to age.

_**"Look further." **_

It was not so much a voice that reverberated in his skull, but more of an intent. Out of the many he felt, it was one of the few he complied with. Jon narrowed his eyes, and the horizon jumped towards him. He looked beyond the forest and saw the many flames of the North's hearts and hearths alike. If he looked west, he could see the outline of Deepwood Motte within the Wolfswood. To the south was Winterfell, Crofters Village, Castle Cerwyn, and even Torren's Square if he looked hard enough. North showed him the Northern Mountains, Breakstone Hill, the Long Lake, and the powerful magic of the Wall that was like a beacon to his eyes. Eastward lay the White Knife, the Lonely Hills, and the Dreadfort. He could see the great keeps and castles from his decrepit little tower as if they were just on the horizon with every single village and hovel in between. He also saw the roaming guardsmen, the caravans and travelers that braved the road at night; the light of their beating hearts and the warmth of their souls. Some lights were brighter and warmer than others. Some were dull and dim. It was how he'd been able to spot and intercept whatever cutthroats roamed the night before they carried out dark deeds. All he needed to do was watch and wait. Jon idly wondered if being the Three-Eyed-Raven was like this; to see past the mortal coil and far into beyond.

_**"Look further!" **_

"Any further and I'll make it snow over the tower again. I'm not drawing attention to myself. I'm staying hidden, here." Jon argued against the voice with an annoyed scowl. The intent did not vanish entirely, but it did abate to his will. Jon inhaled a deep breath. The remnants of the Night King inside him were a constant storm of memories, urges, actions, and raw magic over eight-thousand years old that Jon could barely keep contained.

_-Bran," Jon panted, "What does he want?" His sword was clutched tightly in his hands and he winced against the burns dotting his arms. He'd lost Longclaw long ago, and simple rusty sword was clutched in his shaking fist. Bran lay against a tree with burns__ on his legs. Jon had pulled him from the pyre before it had consumed him, and the two had flown away on a warged Drogon. The Red Priests would soon be at their heels. Jon knew they had to have seen them fly into the woods. Bran's old and depthless eyes stared into the endless blue of the horned Enemy standing not two yards away, watching them silently. Bran and the Night King locked eyes, communicating in a way Jon could not begin to comprehend. _

_"He wants to make a deal." Bran said listlessly, "The past in exchange for the future."- _

Jon stood his watch for most of the night, watching for craven men who would do evil against his homeland. After the wars Westeros had faced in the time he hailed from, highwaymen, soldiers turned bandits, and all sorts of craven men looking to kill, rape, and steal ran rampant in the vastness of the North. What he did every night, hunting down the evil men he saw with his Other eyes, was a preventive action as well as a duty to his homeland. If his plans failed and the North went to war...well, there would be fewer men that took advantage of an unguarded country or joined up with the likes of Ramsay Bolton.

After many hours Jon closed his eyes and let out a long breath. Sleep had become an option for him. He did not need to rest or even eat. He felt no hunger or cold. The cold was another of his allies; his cloak, his guard, and his weapon all at once. When he opened his eyes again, his sight was mortal once more. He stood there for a moment longer before turning away and headed back inside the tower. There would be no killing of evil men this night. Jon walked towards a broken patch of floor that opened up to the bottom of the tower, and jumped. Pain had dulled as well, to the point he barely felt anything. He was faster, stronger, and harder to break than the ice on the Wall. Nothing seemed to harm him, although he suspected Valaryian steel and dragonglass would do the trick. He perceived the world differently. Some things moved faster, other slower, and some things he just knew were there, even if he could not see them. All of these were 'of the Night King's power; the product of their deal.

_-"Bran, this is madness!" He had shouted at his little brother (cousin, a part of him hissed) and he jabbed a finger at the silent, unmoving demon across from them, watching them with unblinking blue orbs. "He is the Enemy! Kill him!" The dragon loomed behind them, eerily still with the occasional twitch against Bran's control. However, neither the Night King nor Drogon moved to attack._

_"The Red God must not win, Aegon." Bran said. Those dark eyes turned on him. "Westeros will burn. Invaders come from across the Narrow Sea. More of R'hllor's faithful are coming by ship with help from the Slave Cities. They will invade, and burn, and take everything they can. More will come and more will die. We have lost." _

_Jon lunged at him, then. Not at Bran, not at the little boy he remembered who had dreamed of becoming a knight, but at the Three-Eyed-Raven; this cold, calculating __thing_ _that had become his brother. He hauled him up by his shirt and screamed, "We cannot give up! Everyone who died-"_

_"Is dead." Bran cut him off in that dead tone of voice, "We must think of the future."_

_Jon struck him across the face. Bran's head whipped to the side, his expression unchanged. Jon stared at him, lips pulled back into a snarl. When Bran turned to look at him, Jon spat, "Everyone who died for us, you would spit on their sacrifices? Sansa and Arya, our sisters, our FAMILY, died because of HIM!" Jon glared with all the hatred he had at the Night King. The horned demon still had not moved and just stared. Jon stared right back "I'm ending this!" He hissed and dropped the greenseer he held in his grip. Bran slid against the trunk of the tree and hit the snow covered ground. He watched as Jon yelled up to the last of his aunt's children._

_"Drogon!" He pointed at the Night King "Dracarys!"_

_The dragon did nothing. _

_"Dracarys!" Jon screamed himself hoarse in desperation, rage, and grief, "DRACARYS!"_

_Drogon still did not move._

_Slowly, Jon turned to look at Bran, the only one who controlled the dragon. Bran stared right back. Jon said to him, "If you truly were a Stark, you would kill him...and end this." His words were hollow and empty._

_"I'm not a Stark. I am the Three-Eyed-Raven." Bran said-_

Jon's landing kicked up leaves and dust. When he rose to his feet, he turned and was met with a fearsome growl that reverberated through the whole tower. A direwolf stood in the entrance. Yellow eyes bored into his, lips pulled back in a snarl, and Jon stepped out of the way. The direwolf stopped growling and padded past him to the end of the tower vault where she sniffed the ground in a quick circle before gently laying down and falling asleep. She wasn't as large as Grey Wind or Ghost had been, but was still the size of a large pony. Oddly enough, she seemed to possess all her pup's coloring; her shaggy hide was a patchwork mix of tan, grey, black, and white. Jon eyed the swell of her belly. The she-wolf was the mother of Ghost, Grey-Wind, Nymeria, Summer, Lady, and Shaggydog. Or at least, she would be, given time. He hoped so, at any rate. He would rather her fate not to be gored by a stag's antler and give birth before she died.

"I still do not know what to name you." Jon told the she-wolf. She gave no response and stayed content with staying asleep.

They had first met in the Wolfswood. A full three months had passed since he left Winterfell. He'd already began his practice of hunting evil men in the area, and his prey that night had been a pack of killers camped on the Glover's land. Word of him must have spread, for the cravens fled when the air chilled around them, when the freezing mist rolled over their camp and their fire died. He ran down and slew the first two easily enough, but he never got to the third. That honor belonged to the she-wolf he found gnawing at his throat beneath a great fir tree. For a moment, the two had just stared at each other, blue eyes looking into yellow, before she had bolted, and left Jon alone in the woods with another corpse. Since that night, and every night since, he'd sometimes see the she-wolf watching him from the cover of the thick brush as he hunted down men with dark hearts. Sometimes she would drag away one of the men he'd slain and feast on manflesh. Other times she would be at his side as Ghost did and attack with him, but she would never let him get close to her and would growl and dart away when he tried. Once, she had snapped at his fingers when he tried to touch her. Despite her skittish behavior and the odd way she followed him, Jon had never felt threatened by her. She must have followed him one day, because one night he had returned to Tumbledown Tower and found her laying inside. She had growled at his approach but did not leave, and had stayed with him ever since. He had no idea why she stayed. He felt no connection with the she-wolf like the one he'd had with Ghost, up until the Night King took his direwolf from him. Jon missed his companion even now.

_-Bran had described R'hllor as a god obsessed with many things. The first being light and fire. The second being the Others. There was no Great Other, the evil god of cold and death R'hllor apparently fought against. There was only the Night King, who R'hllor saw as his ultimate enemy, given their opposing natures. He told Jon that the Red God wished to rid all cold and darkness from the world, and by that, he meant ALL cold and darkness. From the shadows at night to the shade of a cloudy day. Everywhere that was remotely cold, from snowflakes to an evening breeze, he wanted warmed. He wished to rid it all with his light and his fire. Bran also explained that R'hllor hated all magic but his own, and will burn away everything that was not of him. To do that, Bran had said, he must burn the entire world, and will use his priests and worshippers to do it._

_In short, R'hllor was mad._

_"R'hllor has named you his chosen, Aegon. You are the only one who can defeat the Night King. You and only you. Even if you die, R'hllor will bring you back again and again until you fulfill his prophecy of Azor Ahai." Bran looked to the Night King and said, "He knows this, but even if you succeed, the suffering will not end. This winter is the Long Night come again. Westeros is lost. He is offering to change your fate."_

_Jon stared at the Three-Eyed-Raven. He felt cold and bleak; empty. "In exchange for what?" He rasped._

_Bran looked into his eyes, "Let him win. Willingly stand aside, stop fighting him, and let him win." The bleakness turned to rage. Just before Jon could snarl and spit that he would never stop, that as long as he drew breath, he would not rest until the Others were defeated, Bran spoke again. "If so, he would send you back. Back to the beginning, before this all began."_

_Jon glanced between Bran and the Night King. "What?" Was all he said. _

_"A second chance at life. A chance to change the song of Ice and Fire. If you cease to be, here and now, the world may have a chance."_

_"What are you talking about?" Jon croaked. _

_"Better a world of ice, than a world of fire. The War for the Dawn may happen again, but at least I see a chance for all men to live in that."_

_Jon felt sick. "A chance? You'd let the White-Walkers win based on a __chance__?" He rasped._

_Bran stared at him with those horribly empty eyes and said, "A chance is all we have left, Aegon."_

_Jon collapsed to his knees as the last bit of hope drained from his heart, along with what fight he had left in him. For a long moment he had just kneeled there and let the snow melt and soak into his clothes, drowning in hopelessness. Then, in a small, croaking voice, he asked the question. _

_"What must I do?"_

_Bran said "__R'hllor's fire burns in your heart. It is how the Red God has marked you as his Champion. __He needs that fire.__ The Night King will take that fire to sever your fate, and in turn, he will give you ice."_

_Jon did not begin to understand the terms, nor did he care. He felt cold. So, so cold. Cold in a way that had nothing to do with the falling snow. _

_"Will I die?" He asked into the quiet. _

_"No. You will be reborn."-  
_

Nearly a full year had passed since he'd run from Winterfell. Jon knew better than to think too much of the past, but he couldn't help thinking that he had abandoned them again. His family; Robb, Rickon, Bran, Arya, Sansa...father. Hells, even Lady Stark and Theon, too, and everyone else in that castle. On how things might have changed if he had stayed. If he had not been so consumed by his own bitterness for being a bastard that he ran for the Wall. Ran away from all the grief being called Snow caused him. Things might have been different if he had stayed.

And here he was; running from his pain once again.

Even if he returned to Winterfell, what then would he do? Face the uncle he had called father? The siblings that were his cousins? See the faces of men and women that he remembered to be dead? How could he face Sansa, innocent and unmarred, still so naive with songs and stories of knights and ladies still dancing in her head, knowing of the countless horrors that had been inflicted upon her? How could he look at Arya and not see the Bloody Wolf and her List of Names? How could he see Bran and not the Three-Eyed-Raven? How would he look to baby Rickon and not see Ramsay Bolton's arrow in his back? How could he begin to explain the fate that befalls their family? How would he make them believe him?

Furthermore, how could he explain what had happened to him?

_-The Night King took a step towards him. Then another, and another. Jon did not look up. He felt. Empty. Empty, empty, he was so __empty__ and cold inside that it hurt. He had no hope left. No family. Nothing._

_The next thing Jon knew, he was staring into the endless blue of the Night King's eyes as the creature kneeled in front of him.. Jon stared right back. He was not afraid of those eyes, not anymore. He'd cut down so many with the same eyes that he'd lost count. _

_"I hate you!" Jon snarled instead, "I want to you know that! That I hate you!"_

_The Night King said nothing, instead he reached out and placed his hands on either side of Jon's head. His skin felt like it was made of solid ice, and the sharp nails pressing against his skin were so cold they burned. _

_The burning intensified. Jon felt every single one of the scars on his belly feel as if they'd been reopened as a cold so powerful it whited out all sensation flooded him. He tilted back his head and screamed as his life seemed to flash before his eyes. The Night King was screaming too; a sound like the sky was tearing open. He was cold. Cold, cold, cold, coldcoldcoldcoldCOLD..._

_Cold._

_Ice. Frost. Snow._

_Crystallizing. Preserving. Entombing._

_Forever cold._

_It was perfection. _

_It was their purpose. _

_Ice and cold wiping out the destructive, burning heat that inhabited the world. _

_With each flame snuffed, cold could rise in place. _

_The storm will rage, the snow will fall, and warmth will freeze over and become eternal. _

_It was perfection. _

_It was their purpose. _

_Cold._

_Ice. Frost. Snow._

_Crystallizing. Preserving. Entombing._

_Forever cold._

_On and on it went in a never-ending cycle. He did not know how long he knelt there. The cold was creeping into his heart, his mind, and his very soul. Ice crackled and fires burned__. Wolves howled, dragons roared, ravens cawed, and voices screamed. Oh, the screams! Jon was screaming. the Night King was screaming. It seemed like the whole world was screaming! Winter was here yet winter was burning, as flashes of memory flared before his mind. Some were his, and some were not._

_**"First lesson, stick them with the pointy end."**_

_**"It was always my color."**_

_**"The next time we meet, we'll talk about your mother."**_

_**"Sometimes there is no happy choice, only one less grievous than the others."**_

_**"You know nothing, Jon Snow."**_

_**"Kill the boy, and let the man be born-"**_

_**"FOR THE WATCH!"**_

_**"If I fall...don't bring me back."**_

_**"Let's do this the old way. You and me."**_

_**"THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!"**_

_**"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Your Grace."**_

_**"Not Dany. How about, my Queen?" **_

_**He was tied to a tree with a gag in his mouth as the Child of the Forest approached with the black stone in her hand. He screamed and writhed, trying to beg for mercy, to cry for help. Something! Anything! The tip of the stone pressed against his chest and went in through his ribs, through his heart, through his SOUL! It burned with hatred. Burned with malice. Burned with an icy disgust and evil that just felt WRONG! WRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG!HEWASSOCOLDCOLDCOLDCOLD...**_

_**Cold.**_

_**Ice. Frost. Snow. **_

_**Crystallizing. Preserving. Entombing.**_

_**Forever cold.**_

_**It was perfection. **_

_**It was their purpose. **_

_**Ice and cold wiping out the destructive, burning heat that inhabited the world. **_

_**With each flame snuffed, cold could rise in place. **_

_**The storm will rage, the snow will fall, and warmth will freeze over and become eternal. **_

_**It was perfection. **_

_**It was their purpose. **_

_**Cold.**_

_**Ice. Frost. Snow.**_

_**Crystallizing. Preserving. Entombing.**_

_**Forever cold.**_

_**Cold.**_

_The voice broke him from the cycle._

_It was the Night King, in a voice that was so quiet, haunting, and hoarse. A voice no man was ever meant to hear._

_"The...pack...survives."_

_And Jon's world exploded._

_The pain broke him from the cycle. He came to, staggering forward through a pair of heavy doors and into somewhere that was warmer than the cold he felt inside. Jon looked up, and saw the face of the man who haunted his dreams. _

_"Father?" He croaked out?_

_And then he had collapsed-_

The truth was, Jon knew he could not tell the Starks anything. It was a lost cause to try. He should have known it would be so when Theon's sword froze and shattered against his arm, but the night in the crypts destroyed any chance of that. Jon should not have gone there that night. The tomb of his mother, the arrival of Lord Stark, the memories hammering at his mind, and the changes happening to his very being had been too much. He had lost himself; snapped and exploded like a cask of wildfire as the power of the Night King flowed freely through him for the first time. Bran had been right when he said the Night King needed his fire in exchange for ice. Whatever power R'hllor had over him had been frozen over and replaced by the icy power of the Other. That ice had not melted when he awoke in Winterfell. It clung to him like frost and spread throughout him until he was as cold as the White Walkers themselves, but his heart and mind was still sound; still his. With the Night King's memories, along with whatever else was left inside him, he'd been able to harness that power and wield it as his sword.

And that was exactly what this power was; a weapon. One he planned to use.

Jon did not know if there was another Night King in this world. He could not see anything past the protective magic of the Wall, nor any sign of their power. He intended to find out. He would venture beyond the Wall to the far North, and if there was a King of the Others out there, he would find him and kill him.

First, he had to make sure his family was safe. He did not know if Ned Stark heeded any of the warnings he had given him that night in the crypts. King Robert was still coming to Winterfell with the bastard children of incest, the Mad Queen, and her brother the Kingslayer; the man who crippled Bran and set him on the path to become the Three-Eyed-Raven, and certainly not the man Jon associated Jamie Lannister with. No, there was no Ser Goldenhand the Just in this life. Nor a Mad Queen, now that Jon thought about it. Cersei did not have the power to become the threat she had been to all of Westeros...yet. Like the scum that roamed the vast North, Jon planned to eliminate threats before they became larger ones.

Speaking of threats...

Jon's eyes burned blue as he looked towards the Dreadfort and the town of Weeping Water where he knew a Mad Dog roamed. This time, Jon was the one with a List of Names and it was a long list indeed.

_Ramsay._

Winter was coming for the Bastard of Bolton, and Jon intended to make sure he would never hurt **_anyone _**ever again.

* * *

_**I cannot believe how many of you like this. I mean, 50 followers in 5 days? **_

_**Iplanned to have Weeping Water and Ramsay next, but it turned into this. The flashback sequences are not going to be a running theme and I didn't mean to have the bulk of this chapter be as such. There will be flashbacks to showcase events that happened in Jon's life before his Deal with the Night King at key points, but I wanted to write what exactly the deal was and what happened when it was struck. I don't know if it flows together too well, but I'll leave that for you to decide. I'll probably make a few changes once I've reread it a few times and found mistakes I missed lol. Weeping Water will definitely be next, however.**_

_**Also, you would not believe how hard it was to describe the Mother Direwolf! I wanted her to be the one portrayed in the show, but all I had to go off of was the puppet itself, and I can only get so much off of a corpse portrayed from 3 camera angles. I do not have a name for her in mind, but I'd like to see if any of you have a suggestion. If so, drop a name in the reviews. **_

_**It was very fun to describe how a White Walker might perceive the world. Since their eyes are such a prominent part of them, I figured that their eyes are magical as well. They can see the flames of life (and fire in general) as well as great distances, and things the human eye cannot. Magic for a start. As well as other things. **_

_**"Jon, what do your Other Eyes see?"  
"They're taking the Hobbits to Isengard!"**_

_**Yes, Jon has the powers of a White Walker, if not the Night King himself. Truth be told I'm still discovering what he can do as I go along. You will see more of them soon enough, don't you worry. Or maybe you won't. HEHEHEHE...no, you will.**_

_**Fun fact, Tumbledown Tower is a location in the book for those who didn't know. Bran, Hodor, and the Reeds stayed in an old Watchtower on their way North. Bran names it as such for the reasons Jon does here. **_

_**Thank you so much for reading, everybody. Constructive criticism is welcome, as well as suggestions and ideas, and just plain old support. Thanks to all of you who reviewed. I'm glad you find it interesting so far and I plan to keep the intrigue flowing. This took all week to write so I hope it satisfies you...for now. **__**I'm going to bed. **__**Peace!**_

_**Also, 1 review=1 Bandit killed by Jon. Support the North, everybody! **_


	3. Chapter 3

Jon moved as fast as a winter wind. Over hills, moors, and woods, his feet carried him without fail. He did not tire or falter as he leapt over streams and crossed through fields. No sane man would just go blindly running across the North at night, but Jon was not blind nor a mere man. His blue eyes guided him through the dark all the way into Bolton lands. At night, he simply ran, not stopping for anyone or anything. During the day, he skirted around patrols and those who would stop him. He glided through the Sheepshead Hills and reached Weeping Water in three days after a dead sprint across the North.

Jon did not know if the Bolton Bastard would even be there, but he did know that Ramsay had been born there and that he hunted peasant girls with a pack of hounds along with a group called the Bastard's Boys. It was disgusting that Roose Bolton allowed it to continue. If the monster was not at the settlement by the river, he would head straight for the Dreadfort. Jon had been debating killing not only Ramsay, but his father as well. The North would be better off without House Bolton as a whole. The Bolton's had always coveted the position of the Starks; fought against them for hundreds of years for the right to rule the North. Roose Bolton was the one who had wielded the knife that ended Robb's life at the Red Wedding. The son of a bitch all but jumped at the chance to rule the North and he took it from the King he'd sworn himself too. Jon was confident enough in his newfound power that he could probably take on the entirety of the Dreadfort as a whole. One White Walker could take an entire castle on its own; he'd seen it done before. He could scale the walls in the dead of night, and no one would be able to stop him from cutting down all that stood in his way to get to Roose Bolton. Or he could walk straight through the front gates and slaughter everyone and everything that tried to stop him. The line of Bolton ended with Roose and Ramsay. If he took their heads, than no more threat would come to House Stark from the Flayed Man.

In the back of Jon's mind, he knew this line of thinking was wrong, but he could not bring himself to care. There would be no honor in this, no, but there would be justice and _vengeance_, and after all Jon had been through, and those meant more to him than honor ever did.

It was the only thing he had left.

Jon snarled to himself as he slogged over the half-frozen stones of the river. He didn't care how long it took. He would find Ramsay Snow and put him down like the mad dog he was. The same went for the bastard's father, along with the Ironborn, the Lannisters, the Freys, Baelish, the Others; he would kill all of them if he had to! He would secure his family's safety, end the threat beyond the Wall, and after that, he was done with Westeros!

* * *

Jon had been slinking around the dreary mills and huts dotting along Weeping Water for most of the day. He'd received wary stares from nearly all of the smallfolk, all of whose inner flames flickered dimly with fear. Seven hells, the whole land seemed tainted by fear. That fear intensified when the sound of barking dogs echoed through the trees. Jon didn't think, he just _moved. _The wind blew cold as he made for the trees; searching with eyes as blue as the sky. He tracked the barking deep into the woods, and stopped dead as a flickering little heart burst free from the tree line. It was a girl, no older than four and ten and naked as the day she was born. Her face was white with terror and her eyes red from tears. Scratches and scrapes dotted her skin, and blood ran from a wound her right calf. She all but slammed into him, grasping at his collar and begging through tears of terror for help.

The hounds burst from the brush, then. Nine of them, all great, black mastiffs that charged when they saw them. The girl screamed. She was only a child; her hair long and black, with a dimple on her right cheek. Her brown eyes were wide with complete and utter panic and fear. Jon grabbed her and pushed her behind him. She stumbled, but did not fall. The dogs bayed and howled, but as they neared, Jon stepped forward and let loose the howling storm inside him. Some of the hounds checked their charge, whimpering as cold blanketed the area and frost coated the ground, but the ones with foaming jaws wide and white eyes rolling in their head, the ones vicious enough to attack something that screamed _**DEATH**_ to their senses, those were the ones Jon had to kill first. His backfist caved the first one's skull like a rotten gourd. The second he kicked so hard that it flew straight into the trunk of a thick tree with a yelp and landed unmoving. The third tried to bite his leg, but he stomped down on its neck and ended its life with a wet snap. The remaining dogs barked and panted clouds of steam into the freezing air, but they kept their distance.

Jon turned and barked "Go!" at the girl. She stared at his face beneath his cowl, her features frozen in a mask of fear and awe, and ran. Jon watched her go and turned around just in time to catch an arrow in his gut. The head broke apart on impact and the shaft bounced off him. Jon held back his snarl as a billowing horse galloped into the clearing and reared at the sight of him.

"Easy, Blood, easy!" Came the voice of the rider as he calmed his mount; smooth as an oiled dagger and sickening as poison. Eyes like dirty chips of ice stared at him, and a slimy grin split a pale face. "Well, well..." Ramsay Snow crooned, "What have we here?" The monster adjusted the grip of his hunting bow and dismounted.

Jon's entire world narrowed in on the Bolton bastard. The blood thundered in his ears, his nostrils flared, and his right hand twitched violently for want of a sword. This was the depraved monster that had raped and brutalized Sansa. This was the craven cur that shot down his baby brother. This was the sadistic creature that took pleasure in killing and torture. None of that mattered any longer, however, because Ramsay Snow was going to die this day, and Jon was going to kill him. Ramsay's pale eyes roamed over Jon's cloaked frame and his cowering dogs, before he stopped when he saw the corpses of the hounds.

"You killed my dogs." Ramsay stated in a calm, almost friendly tone of voice that did absolutely nothing to hide the menace and madness dancing in his eyes. Jon said nothing, but glared into those eyes from beneath his hood.

"Do you know who I am?" The bastard crowed, "I am Ramsay, of house Bolton!" Ramsay suddenly spotted his destroyed arrow lying on the ground and frowned.

"But you're not a Bolton," Jon said, cold as death. "You're a Snow."

Ramsay's face went blank.

"What's the matter, bastard?" Jon sneered. There was an irony in here somewhere, Jon knew. He, the secret heir to the Iron Throne raised as a bastard, taunting someone who embodied every negative stereotype bastardry entailed in the eyes of the world.

Ramsay's mounting fury coincided with the plummeting temperature, not that Ramsay seemed to notice. 'Good.' thought Jon. He wanted to get the monster angry. He wanted him to attack and rage and scream so that Jon could knock him to the ground when he came at him, which looked to be soon. Ramsay's whole face seemed to be quivering in rage. Jon figured that the bastard was not used to being insulted in such a manner. He probably killed or maimed anyone who so much as looked at him crossly. Jon wondered what his expression would be when Ramsay realized he had no chance of winning. The thought made him smile.

Ramsay's own smile was as sick and twisted as the flame of his soul when he said, "I don't care who you are. Your name doesn't matter to me, because when I'm done with you, it will be Reek! How's that sound, hmm? Reek! It rhymes with freak!"

With that said, Jon lifted his head to stare directly into Ramsay's eyes and let the Bolton bastard see the glowing blue burning underneath his cowl.

"No." Jon denied, "I am going to be the one who kills you."

To his credit, Ramsay only paused and tilted his head to the side. He said, "Well...that's interesting." Then he yelled out to his hounds, "Rip him! Rip him!"

Spurred by their master, they charged. Ramsay watched with a savage glee that quickly turned to surprise when Jon's hand reached into the folds of his cloak and ripped free the blade he'd kept tied to his side with a loop of leather. He'd modeled it after Longclaw. Jon had wielded that blade for so long, he could recall every inch of that sword from tip to pommel. The shape, length, width, how it felt in his hands when he swung it; he knew every detail of the weapon gifted to him by Jeor Mormont.

Except the blade he now bore was not made of Valaryian steel or bore a wolf's head pommel. A bastard sword in length and design, yes, but that was where the similarities with the ancestral sword of House Mormont ended. It was razor thin and completely clear as if it was made of ice or crystal, but was neither, and slashed through Ramsay's hounds like a hot knife through butter.

At first, Jon had loathed the idea of wielding a weapon of the White-Walkers; still did, to a degree, but quickly found out he needed one out of pure necessity. When he first left Winterfell, he made sure to take a sword from the armory. It had been castle-forged steel and eventually froze and shattered in his icy grip the first time he used it. He acquired another, but it soon met the same fate. Jon could no longer wield the metal weapons of man without destroying them, no matter what he tried. For a while, he relied on his brute strength. The strength of a White-Walker equaled the strength of five men, and Jon's blows could crack stone and shatter solid steel, but he hated the brutality needed to kill with fists alone and longed for a sword he could swing. Soon, the echoes of the Night King began to whisper an answer. Jon resisted at first. Each time he delved deeper into the Night King's power, he felt a part of himself slip away. His mind was so consumed with magic and memories that he'd begun to forget just who or what he was at times. Was he Jon Snow or Aegon Targaryen? Bastard or king? Fire or ice? Man or monster? Night or North? With each passing day, he changed in ways he did not know he could return from. Yet, he still made the sword. He was no pugilist, and he fought better with a sword in hand, so he had spent an entire night in Tumbledown Tower with his hands cupped in front of him while focusing the power of the Others between them to form the blade he now held.

Jon's cloak was splattered with dog blood and frozen droplets of red covered his ice blade after he killed all the hounds and turned back to Ramsay, who was no longer smiling. Jon also took an arrow to the face when he did so. The arrowhead shattered into pieces against his skin and the second practically bounced off his chest. Jon side-stepped the third arrow aimed for his groin and advanced on the bastard. Ramsay's eyes bulged and he dropped his bow completely in favor of mounting his agitated horse. Before he got so much as a foot in the stirrup, Jon's arm whipped forward and Ramsay's horse keeled over with the ice blade imbedded halfway in it's throat. Ramsay snarled as his horse nearly fell over on top of him and jumped out of the way of his fallen steed. Jon was nearly on top of him as well, but instead of running, Ramsay pulled a skinning knife from his belt and faced Jon.

Jon had to give the bastard his due; he was fearless. He was also stupid in that regard. Fear is what helped keep a man alive in moments like this. Ramsay allowed Jon to get within striking range before lashing out. Jon caught the blade before it so much grazed his neck and squeezed. It burst into a hundred pieces. They both watched the frozen shards fell to the forest floor. Jon looked up and locked eyes with Ramsay. "How sharp are your blades now, bastard?" Jon intoned lowly. Then he backhanded Ramsay so hard that his feet left the ground, and the second he hit the dirt, Jon was on him.

Jon fell atop Ramsay with a cry and began raining down blow after blow. Ramsay slapped and clawed at his neck and eyes, but Jon felt nothing and bit his hand like a wolf, breaking a few fingers as he continued to punch, and punch, and punch, with no Sansa witnessing the savagery to make him stop this time. Ramsay's blood stained his cloak now, along with his fists and his face. Ramsay's face was bloody too, so bloody that it looked like an open wound. His nose was broken and squashed flat, his one eye a swollen-shut ruin, and many of his teeth had broken and fallen into his throat. Jon did not stop. The knowledge of what this creature did to his family and to the North kept running around and around in his head.

_He raped my sister! He killed my brother!_

Even as Ramsay's struggles weakened, Jon kept battering him over and over again with a wellspring of hate and rage fueling every blow.

_He raped my sister! He killed my brother!_

Even when the choked gurgles ceased completely and Ramsay's body went limp, Jon did not stop.

_HE RAPED MY SISTER! HE KILLED MY BROTHER!_

"STOP!"

Jon's fist, pulled back for another strike, froze in place at the sound of the voice. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder. Two armed men in Bolton livery were standing there. Behind them were a gathering of smallfolk, most likely from the nearby village. Among them was the girl he'd saved, covered by a woolen blanket. When Jon turned to look at them, the guardsmen's eyes went wide and gasps of fear echoed through the trees. The guards drew their swords.

"By the gods!" One exclaimed. The other yelled "Stand up! Stand up, slowly!"

His black cloak was coated in blood, along with his face and fists. His cowl had fallen back to reveal his bloodstained visage of glowing blue eyes and snow white hair. That particular change started soon after he left Winterfell. No longer black, it hung freely around his shoulders in a curly mane. His beard and eyebrows had begun to change color as well. What would change next, he wondered. Would he eyes become permanently blue? Would his skin turn white and stretch taut over his bones? Or perhaps to blue ice, and horns would sprout from his head. Jon slowly rose to his feet and glanced at the frightened and anxious crowd that had the potential to become a mob. Even the girl he had saved looked frightened and cowered with wide eyes. One wrong move and they would either attack him or flee. Judging from the axes and shovels held with deadly intent, Jon betted on the latter. Unwillingly, his gaze swept over the corpses he'd created, and the intent made its presence known once more.

"**Raise them!" **

"No!" He hissed under his breath.

"**RAISE THEM!" **

It was more powerful then intent. It was an instinct; an urge, a drive, even, to stretch his power over the corpse and bid them to rise, to _**kill**_-

"No!" Jon's snarled once more. Then, he moved. The people shouted in alarm and the guards called for him to stop, but Jon was a dark wind that swept over Ramsay's dead horse to rip his ice blade free before taking off into the trees as fast as he could. The shocked exclamations that echoed behind him quickly faded into the distance as he rushed through the forest. He ran and ran until he collapsed on the western banks of Weeping Water, furthest from the Dreadfort and closer to the sea. Jon felt like he had to vomit.

He had just beaten a man to death. That man had been Ramsay fucking Snow, yes, but still. He could have killed him quickly and vanished into the trees before anyone came across him, and be done with it. Instead, he had drawn it out. Jon wanted to make the sadistic bastard suffer; to punish him for things Ramsay had not even done yet. Just seeing his pale eyes and evil leer made a black tide of hate rise up and consume him. Now, just under a dozen people saw how he had turned a person's face into a bloody ruin. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be swift, merciless, and above all, practical. There was no room for mistakes. One of the benefits Jon possessed by crafting himself as a rumor was that he was just that; a rumor. Something to ward off those who did ill will. Now, the Bolton's would be on high alert once word got back to Roose. Ravens would fly and people would be actively hunting for him. Idly, Jon wondered if Ramsay had survived. He hoped not.

Jon dipped a hand into the slow-moving river and watched the current wash away the red mess coating his skin. He began to scrub at his arms and face to remove as much as he could. Why risk leaving a scent for hounds to track him by? He waded into the shallow water, immune to the cold, and let the blood wash from his clothes and skin. A steady trail of pinkish-red soon flowed downstream from where Jon stood. He watched it disappear and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water. Blue eyes, white hair; he certainly looked a great deal like the monsters he'd fought in his memories.

"Maybe I'm the monster, now." He heard himself mutter.

He felt the eyes on him then. His spine stiffened. The sensation was familiar, heightened by his supernatural senses. He had learned to sense it in the past, when Bran was watching over him. Now, the magic behind those eyes stood out like someone lit a bonfire behind him. Slowly, Jon turned in the frigid water to glare at the black raven perched on the riverbank that was watching him.

"Hello, Three-Eyed-Raven." Jon growled low in his throat.

His eyes burned blue and he looked _further_ into the eyes of the raven, saw the man behind them, and sneered.

"Or should I say, _Bloodraven_?"

* * *

_**I'm not gonna say cliffhanger...but cliffhanger. **_

_**I wanted to add different perspectives from other characters but I couldn't create the scenes and dialogue I wanted. It just didn't go that way, I guess. I just kept writing and this is the result. I did promise you Weeping Water and I delivered, so cookie 4 me! This chapter also was a challenge to write. There was a lot of little things that I changed around; sentences, dialogue, words and such. I wanted to at least try to get it out in another week, and I'm satisfied with how this tapers off. It's going to open up more for the coming chapters and expand on how Jon's presence has changed things. And trust me; Jon has changed things big-time! **_

_**A wild Bloodraven appears! (Speaking of blood, in the books, Ramsay has a horse named Blood so he wasn't just saying Blood for no reason up there.) Yeah, Brynden Rivers is here and spying on Jon. Well, trying to at least. Jon basically being a White-Walker south of the Wall stood out to the greenseer like a sore thumb. He's known about Jon ever since he came back, but part of the reason (in my mind) he hasn't begun watching him earlier is because Jon's been constantly moving and is passively resisting Brynden's Eyes. That, and other reasons that shall be explained later. I don't really have much else to say for this one. Ramsay is dead...or is he? Jon beating the living shit out of him is going to make waves, that for certain. I look forward to writing said waves!**_

_**Also, I am once again astounded at how many of you like this. Thank you all, all of you that Fav'd, Follow'd, and Review'd and the ones that will Fav, Follow, and Review. Please tell me what you think of the story so far and what you think might happen next! Constructive Criticism is very much welcome. Reviews are what keeps me going. I'd love to hear what you all have to say!**_

_**1 Review=1 facepunch to Ramsay Snow.**_

_**Apostrophes ftw! **_

_**Peace!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hey, Hi, Hello! Notes at the bottom. Also i did the same for chapter 1 and replaced it with 3 for a hot second there. A HUGE thank you ****Reikson for letting me know, you saved my bacon. **_

* * *

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the raven took to the skies, and an old and gravelly voice spoke from behind Jon.

"You have changed everything."

Jon's lips curled into a snarl and he slowly turned around to stare at the old man standing on the riverbank before him. "Brynden Rivers; bastard son of Aegon the Unworthy." He greeted in a tone that was all ice and anger.

Jon remembered when he heard the story of how Bran became the Three-Eyed-Raven from Meera Reed. It was after the Night King's First Retreat. Arya had already assassinated Cersei and Euron Greyjoy claimed the Iron Throne for himself. The Vale had fallen and the Golden Company was marching through the Neck. At any other time, the army would have fallen to the very nature of the Neck itself. The endless morass of suckholes and quicksands of the swampy marshland were enough to slow any army from crossing. Not to mention the cranogmen that knew the land like the back of their hands and could make the lives of invaders an absolute hell. However, the Golden Company used a method to cross it never used before; wildfire. Green flames engulfed the Neck and burned a path north, along with everyone who could not escape the blaze. When Greywater Watch, the seat of House Reed, fell, the remaining cranogmen forces retreated north. Jon met with Meera Reed and eventually learned of her and Bran's quest beyond the Wall to find the Three-Eyed Raven, along with everyone they'd lost on the journey. When Jon asked Bran, he confirmed the story to be true. After he'd returned through time, Jon decided to research the bastard son of Aegon IV.

The man known as Bloodraven had quite an interesting history; his role in the Blackfyre rebellions, his tenor as Hand of the King and Master of Whispers, his imprisonment and opting to take the black, his election to Lord Commander, and finally, disappearing while ranging beyond the Wall in 252 AC. What was most interesting, however, was the claims that he was a sorcerer. "How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have?" The riddle ran, "A thousand eyes and one." Given what Jon knew now, it was a very apt description.

"Aegon Targaryen; son of Lyanna Stark and Rheagar Targaryen." The albino replied. A nigh imperceptible tilt of the head, and then, "Or would you prefer Jon Snow?"

Jon's eyes narrowed. "You claim to know me, then?"

"As you claim to know me." Brynden's lone red eye never moved from Jon's blazing blue, "I know only what I see, and I have seen much."

"I know enough, greenseer!" Jon hissed, "And do you know what I see? Nothing but an old man in a tree who has done nothing but watch the world go to the seven hells for the last fifteen years!"

The Raven stared at Jon for a long moment, tattered clothes billowed in an invisible wind, and for a moment, Jon could see anger in his eye, but then, Brynden tilted his head and said to Jon, "I am as you say; an old man in a tree. Would you like to know what I see when I look at you, Night Prince?" A moment passed before the name registered, and then a sheet of ice crackled over the river's surface as Jon's fury flared. Despite the fact Jon knew he could do no harm, but he took a step towards the Three-Eyed-Raven with eyes blazing and fists clenched anyway. He stopped just as quickly when the implications of the title caught up to him as well.

Night Prince.

Not King.

Even though he no longer felt any cold, Jon felt a chill slide down his spine. "He's still alive, isn't he?" His voice sounded bleak, even to his own ears. A long moment passed where Bloodraven just stared at him, before he gave a slow, grave nod to acknowledge Jon's fear. It felt like a pit had opened beneath his feet to swallow him, and Jon stumbled back into the cold water with his thoughts reeling. Somehow, he'd known. Despite his hopes and denials, he'd always known ever since he'd returned that the Night King still lived.

"The king of the Others lives, yes." Bloodraven's voice pulled him back to reality, "As do his White-Walkers and Army of the Dead. I see them beginning to march south again at this very moment."

Jon blinked, "Again?" He asked.

"Almost a year ago, they stopped marching. It was only for a moment, but every single one of them stopped and stared south. For once, it was not at the Wall, but towards Winterfell, where a boy was killed and a man was born. A man with blue eyes." Brynden paused for a long moment. "I am the Three-Eyed-Raven; I see all that is and has been. I see his power in you, Jon Snow. Power no mortal was ever meant to possess. I can see the day you were born and every one of your days up to now, and yet, I do not see _you;_ the one who took the place of the boy in Winterfell. I cannot see your story. The trees do not know you, Jon Snow. You are an anomaly, and your very presence here has undone the fabric of fate."

Jon swallowed thickly, "I am from the future." He answered. It was the only thing he could think to say.

Brynden went very still. "Oh." Was all he said after a long pause. Then, "How?"

"What do you want?" Jon asked in turn.

"To know who you are. Now, more than ever." Bloodraven said honestly.

"And why should I tell you?" Jon shot back. His anger had returned now. Anger against the Three-Eyed-Raven for what he had done to Bran in the life he had lived, and anger against Bloodraven for not doing more to stop the Others. What good where a thousand eyes and one when all you could do was watch? Underneath his anger, however, was concern. If the Three-Eyed-Raven could not see Jon's story, that begged the question of how would he react to the future Jon came from? What would he think of the Deal? No matter what resentment Jon held, he had no desire to make an enemy.

"I can be a powerful ally."

Jon laughed a contemptuous sound that rang hollow and was rich with bitterness. "What use would I have of you?" He said scornfully, "I know the future of this world, Bloodraven, and it is a ruined world of ice and fire! Half of the country will be scorched by wildfire while the other will be frozen, and all that is _after _the wars that take place! Countless follies by ambitious fools tore the kingdoms apart while you sat in your tree! I even know your future, Brynden Rivers!" Jon stared straight into the eye of the Three-Eyed-Raven and said "I know your fate, Three-Eyed-Raven, and I know who you seek!"

Bloodraven's eye went wide.

Jon stepped forward again, "Stay away from Bran Stark." He intoned lowly, "Stay out of his dreams and keep to your tree! Try to stop me and I'll climb the Wall and kill you myself!" He turned to walk away from the Three-Eyed-Raven. It did not work. When he turned around, he found the apparition of Bloodraven standing on the opposite riverbank.

"You do not understand." Bloodraven said, "I am not the only one watching you."

"The Night King? Or perhaps the Children? I know what few remain are with you." Jon guessed through gritted teeth. The thoughts of the Children of the Forest sent faint echoes of rage coursing through him. Most of it seeped from the Night King's memories, but also due to his thoughts of the one known as Leaf. Bran had made mention of her as well, eventually. She and her group had been responsible for creating the Night King, and by proxy, the Others. All of this was their fault.

Brynden blinked in what Jon could tell was surprise. After a minute, he spoke. "True, they watch as well, but no. Your arrival was like a star falling from the heavens; unexpected, powerful, and witnessed by many. As I said, man was never meant to wield such power. I merely wish to learn who you are, but there are those who wish to destroy you."

The chill returned. "Who?" Jon asked.

"Both the Others and myself could see the light of your power from beyond the Wall. Your arrival upon this world has made magic stir for the first time in centuries. Because of you, old things are waking. You have drawn the attention of many eyes, Jon Snow, and some of those eyes have seen you in the flames."

"The Red Priests." Jon hissed with no small amount of venom.

"Yes." Brynden said after taking in Jon's anger, "The servants of the Red God have seen you, and they see you as a threat."

"They see everything that doesn't belong to their Red God as a threat! Something to be burned away! I know their zealotry well." Jon growled.

"Yet, you have not met any of R'hllor's followers in your life thus far."

Jon's following sneer was all teeth. "_This life, _Bloodraven."

Brynden stared at him, long and hard. "You died?"

Jon swallowed hard, "I don't know. I was...sent."

"I sense my own power in you alongside the Night King's." Brynden told him with a quirk of the head and narrowing of the eye. The old man was good at asking questions through statements, Jon would give him that. When Jon stayed silent, Bloodraven said, "I mean you no harm, Jon Snow. I wish you to know that."

"I do not trust you." Jon responded firmly.

"Why?"

"I have no reason to trust you. You said that you sensed your own power with the Night King's. You're not wrong." Jon stared Bloodraven dead in the eye as he walked towards him. "I met the Three-Eyed-Raven, Brynden Rivers, but it was not you. It was your _replacement!_" Jon hissed through clenched teeth.

The ice on the river thickened to the point where sheets if it broke off and trailed behind him as he waded towards Bloodraven. Cold wind lashed the tree tops, frost coated the ground, and a light flurry of snow began to fall. "But it wasn't Bran! No, It was the _thing _he had become! A soulless shell of my little brother; the Three-Eyed-Raven! I will not have him die for you, Bloodraven! I won't have it! Do you hear me? I won't have it!" Jon was trembling as he rose from the water and glared at the last greenseer beyond the Wall. No matter what came, he would protect his family from the fates that would befall them, even if it meant opposing the Three-Eyed-Raven and the Children of the Forest.

"I won't have it!" He hissed once more.

A whole minute passed before Bloodraven spoke again. When he did, his low and raspy voice was tinged with what Jon could tell was naked concern. "What happens to young Bran?"

"What do you care?" Jon demanded.

Brynden's lone eye bore into his, "If what you said is true, than something went terribly wrong in the transition of power. I have worn many names, but the name my mother gave me at her breast was Brynden. Throughout all these years, I have kept my identity and not lost myself to the darkness I dwell in. Every time I open my third eye and slip my skin to enter the trees, I risk losing myself. It is easy for one as practiced as I, but an untrained greenseer? Without a guiding hand, they may become lost in the roots of the weirwood trees with only their third eye to guide them through the dark. If so, a part of them will never return. Something must have happened; I must have not been able to fully complete his training."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

Brynden sighed and fixed him with an annoyed glare, "You are a paranoid man, Jon Snow. You look for deception within every spoken word, but I have no need for doublespeak or hidden motives. This is not King's Landing, where lies come as easy as breathing, nor am I the Hand of the King _or _Master of Whispers." The shrewdness in his gaze intensified "And you are not some common Noble I must deceive. I left those days behind when I took the black, and were all but forgotten when I became the Three-Eyed-Raven, so, please do not insult me by thinking me craven."

Jon glared at Bloodraven even as the fight drained out of him. Here was a man that Jon, despite his misgivings, could genuinely respect, even admire. Brynden Rivers had been a man forced to make hard choices, but the right ones. Even though he had been branded a kinslayer after slaying his half-brother, Daemon Blackfyre I in the first Blackfyre Rebellion, and later a sorcerer during the reign of Aerys I, Brynden had remained loyal and dutiful to king and country. He had been a competent Hand and spymaster from what Jon had read, and he had asked to join the Night's Watch after his imprisonment during the Great Council of 233 AC. Mayhaps it was foolish, but a part of Jon trusted a fellow black brother. However, another part of him that existed within the scars on his belly and heart screamed otherwise. Where did Brynden's loyalties truly lie? Was he of the Watch, or did his heart reside with the roots of the weirwood he lived in? Jon could trust man, but he did not want to trust magic. So, who was Brynden Rivers, now? Magic or man? Greenseer, or black brother? Jon had to know if he were to trust him.

"Who are you?" Jon suddenly demanded. Brynden eyed him carefully. Calculation and consideration lay within that blood red orb as it bored into Jon's eyes. Jon asked him again, "Who _are _you, Brynden Rivers?"

Brynden's faced worked for a moment, and then it relaxed. The old greenseer stood straight and proud, and said to Jon "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men."

"...For this night, and all nights to come." Jon muttered. He quashed the power inside him and felt the freezing cold around them fade away as well as the blue drain from his eyes. He and Brynden stared at each other for a long moment, him with solemn acceptance and Brynden with honest curiosity. Then, Jon stretched out his hand. The greenseer looked at it, and then at Jon.

Then, he took it.

Jon let him see everything; his life as the Bastard of Winterfell, him joining of the Watch, his encounters with the Others, meeting the Free-Folk, the battle for Castle Black, Stannis' arrival, Hardhome, his death and resurrection, the Battle of the Bastards, meeting Daenerys, his quest beyond the Wall. Then came the second War for the Dawn, the Night King's first retreat, the Golden Company attacking, Cersei's assassination at Arya's hands, Euron Greyjoy taking the throne, Melisandre and the wildfire, the invasion of the Red Priests, and the war of ice and fire that followed.

Then, finally...the Deal.

The memories of that life flew by in a whirlwind of sensation; sound, smell, touch, sight, taste, and it was over in an instant. Even though Jon knew this was merely a projection of Brynden Rivers that he could only see through magic, Brynden's grip felt solid and real. When he finally let go and the memories ended, Jon gasped a lungful of air and stared at the greenseer who was staring right back with open-mouthed shock. It was here, Jon realized, that Brynden had expressed more emotion than Bran as the Raven ever did. It seemed, perhaps, that Brynden was right when he said something had gone wrong with Bran. It allowed Jon to believe that he was doing the right thing in showing Brynden the truth.

"I have my own ghosts, Jon." Brynden croaked, "A brother that I loved, a brother that I hated, a woman I desired. Through the trees, I see them still, but no word of mine has ever reached them. The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it." He stared deep into Jon's eyes, and said two words, "Until now."

* * *

Roose Bolton stalked through the halls of the Dreadfort towards his maester's room. The guards all but jumped out of his way when he approached the door. "Cowards." he thought with narrowed eyes, he should have them flogged for showing such weakness. Roose opened the door and swept inside to greet the sight upon the maester's table.

There, lying beaten and bloody, was his bastard.

He stared at the boy's mashed face and swollen skin for a long moment, before he turned to the two men who had brought the body and asked, "What happened?"

One of his men, he could not remember his name, stepped forward and cleared his throat to speak "We were patrolling Weeping Water, milord, when we came upon a girl who had run out of the woods. She was naked and didn't speak a word, just pointed into the trees. Us and a couple 'a smallfolk went to see what happened and, well..." Here, the man swallowed and glanced at his bastard's body.

A frission of annoyance ran through Roose and he said, "Speak lest I have your tongue removed. What happened?"

"Milord..." Came the voice of the second guard, " When we found 'im," He nodded to Ramsay "There blood everywhere. Dead dogs and a horse, and there was a man atop 'im, just...hittin' him, milord. Over and over. I called for 'im to stop, but when he turned..." The man's words stuttered and he stared at Ramsay's body with a look of remembered fear, "'E' was cloaked in black, milord. Hair was white as snow, and his eyes...they were blue! Completely blue, like...like...like blue stars in his face, and they glowed! I swear it, milord! Swear on me mother's grave! And there was a sword stuck in the horse. It didn't look like steel or iron-make. It looked like it was made of ice! Pure ice! He grabbed it and ran. By the gods, 'e was fast! By the time we started to move...'e was gone!"

Roose remained silent for a long moment. These men were not lying. The smallfolk had been questioned as well and said just about the same thing. Blue eyes, white hair, black cloak, and the deep cold that left when the stranger ran into the trees at an incredible speed. It was bizarre. It was frustrating. Above all, it made him desire a leeching so he may be able to think straight. He knew of his bastard's vices, and while Roose did not stop him, he had warned Ramsay to be careful. A peaceful land, a quiet people; that was his motto. He did not need the likes of Lord Stark to hear of what his son did. The consequences would be...vexing.

Speaking of Lord Stark, this...occurrence coincided with the rumors that spoke of a similar man hunting criminals around the Wolfswood and Winterfell, and all of _that _seemed to correspond with tales of Stark's bastard going mad and running off into the night.

_This, _however, demanded his immediate attention.

"Leave." He said to the guardsmen. They nodded and scurried out the door like rats. Roose stared at the body of his bastard and allowed himself the luxury of a calming breath. He was surrounded by incompetent fools, it seems. "Maester Wolkan, your report." Roose addressed his maester, who had been silently watching off to the side, waiting to be called upon. Good, at least _someone _was competent.

Wolkan dipped his head with a respectful, "Lord Bolton. Your, erm, son is in critical condition. While alive, he is hanging on by a thread. His nose is crushed and his one eye is ruptured. Two of the fingers on his left hand are broken and appear to have been bitten most hard by human teeth. As your guardsmen have reported, he has been beaten very badly, milord, by someone very strong." The maester paused and glanced at Ramsay's body, "There is something else, milord. Something odd." At Roose's nod to continue, Wolkan walked over and parted Ramsay's tunic, which had been cut open to reveal the blotchy red marks on his son's body. Roose ran a finger over them and frowned when he felt how cold his son was.

"Frostbite?" He asked.

"Yes, milord. It is still summer, milord, and the temperature around Weeping Water is still rather fair, but its as if your son had been dropped into the far north with little protection. He was so cold that his body had gone into shock." That explained why the room was so warm, Roose mused as he stared at the braziers and raging hearth.

_"He was so cold..."_

Roose and Wolkan both turned to face Ramsay. The boy stirred slightly and let out wet coughs that racked his whole body. Roose loomed over his son's body and stared at his ruined face. "Ramsay?" He called softly, "Can you hear me?"

Ramsay's voice came rasping again, "His hands were like ice...cold. Cold hands..."

"Who did this, Ramsay? Tell me." Roose asked again. Ramsay's good eye slowly opened and stared at him. Wolkan was moving around in the background, muttering about a poultice, and Roose leaned in closer. The sooner Ramsay identified his attacker, the better.

"He was cold...cold hands."

"Ramsay?"

"Cold hands..."

And then, Ramsay went still. A long, gurgling breath left his lungs a minute later, and Roose knew instantly that he was dead. Wolkan flew to Ramsay's side and would have begun performing a number of maesterly things in order to try and save his son, but Roose stopped him, "Don't bother. See to it that his body is buried below the Dreadfort. After that, have my captain of the guard post a bounty on this...Coldhands. A stag for any information in regards to him for a start. To the man that captures him, ten gold dragons dead and twenty if he's alive." With that, he left the room and made straight for his solar. He was in need of a leeching indeed. Too much excitement was bad for his blood; made it too hot for his liking.

"Lord Bolton! Please, Lord Bolton!"

His fingers twitched for want of a knife when the woman's voice grated his ears. Slowly, he turned and saw the kennel master's daughter, Miranda, along with a few of his son's men, the Bastards Boys, standing in the corridor outside the door. He said nothing and regarded her coolly.

"Ramsay, is he...is he-?" His son's whore blubbered.

"He is dead." He cut her off before striding off towards his solar. As she wailed in misery behind him, he allowed himself another calming breath. He'd deal with the woman later, but right now, he had no time for this nonsense. He was going to write a few missive to his vassals, asking for assistance in the hunt for this Coldhands.

Behind him, Miranda collapsed while weeping loudly. Luton caught her before she hit the stone floor, but she shoved him off with an angry scream of "DON'T TOUCH ME!" As she wailed, Sour Alyn grunted and asked "Ramsay's dead?"

"Didn't you just hear Lord Bolton?" Damon Dance-for-me asked snidely.

"Who killed him?" Skinner asked.

"Whoever it is, I'm gonna cut his cock off." Yellow Dick growled. Behind him, Grunt grunted in agreement.

"They say that the Blue-Eyes killed him." Luton said.

"The Blue-Eyes? You believe that horse-piss?" Damon scoffed.

"Some shite about some demon killing men left and right across the north? Maybe not a demon, but some cunt who thinks himself a hero." Skinner shrugged "I say we go out and hunt him down."

"With what?" asked Yellow Dick, "The Girls are all dead, and Ben Bones says none are proper trained to hunt yet."

"I heard that Starks bastard is Blue Eyes." Damon chipped in "They say he died with a hundred wounds from invisible knives and woke up a day later. Then, he runs off and disappears."

Grunt, well, grunted in agreement.

Miranda suddenly snarled. She turned to glare at them all with eyes wide and wild as their deceased hounds "Starks bastard did this!" She howled.

Sour Alyn rolled his eyes, "Miranda, its just a rumor-"

"No! I know he did! He had to have done it! The Starks have always hated the Bolton's! The little cunt probably did it to impress his father! I'll flay him alive!"

"Miranda-"

"Saddle the horses! We're finding this little fuck if its the last thing we do!" Her eyes were wide and glassy as she looked around at all of them. The Bastard's Boys, as they were called, had feared their now dead leader. It was unsaid among them, however, that they feared his lover just as much. Miranda was as cruel and sadistic as Ramsay, and just as fearless. And now, it seemed, she was twice as mad.

"Lord Bolton-" Sour Alyn began.

"Will reward us! Even if we have to burn Winterfell itself to the ground, we'll find Ramsay's killer!"

"Burn Winterfell?" Damon scoffed. He sounded careless, but there was a gleam in his eyes that said otherwise, "Not that I'm opposed to the idea, but we'd need an army for that shit, Miranda."

"We don't need an army." Miranda hissed, "Ramsay always told me that all you'll ever need is twenty good men."

* * *

_**Not much to say for this one besides me having a hard time writing the interactions between Bloodraven and Jon. One who knows the future and one who knows the past made for a weird dynamic. Bloodraven being mysterious and vague with Jon's blunt facts smashing his mysterious air. I just hope it sounds good, everybody. **_

_**Ah, Roose, you creepy mother fucker. Also, the Bastards boys! Jon murdered the Bastards Girls (His dogs in the books). Aaand Miranda. I have plans for her as well. You haven't seen the last of the Flayed Man, boys and girls! Except for Ramsay. I kept him alive and killed him all in a few paragraphs! Yes, I gave Jon Coldhands as a moniker. I don't think the half-wight will be in this story to be honest, but we'll see. **_

_**Next up we're gonna see what's going on back in Winterfell. See you then!**_


	5. Chapter 5

Ever since Jon left, Bran kept having the same dreams.

_A wall of flames roaring from the south crashed into a wave of frost coming from the north. The two elements met in an explosion of steam, and out of it flew a white wolf with dragon's wings. The dragonwolf flew high above the land; so high that it could look across all seven kingdoms._

_Then came the fire. Great gouts of emerald flames erupted all across the kingdom and consumed everything. Out of the green blaze came golden skeletons that ran into the north with weapons raised while a bloody wolf gnawed at the throat of a lioness, and the great tentacles of a white kraken pulled a great castle the color of blood that must be the Red Keep into the sea. Winter began to creep back into the land with only destructive pyres of red flame that replaced the green roaring against the cold._

_The dragonwolf was helpless to stop any of it. The white beast howled and raged, but it was lost to the_ blue_ ice and red fire that consumed the land. _

For some reason, it made him think of Jon. He missed Jon fiercely. What had happened to his brother? Why had he run off? Father would say nothing to anyone about it, not even Robb, nor mother either. His parents didnot like people talking about what had happened to Jon all those months ago. Didn't stop anyone from saying what they pleased, however, and Bran had ears. He had heard rumors that Jon had been killed by a faceless assassin, or something like that, and the killer had taken his place. Others said that Jon had been killed by the gods and possessed by a spirit from the crypts to enact their justice on the world. None of those made a lick of sense.

If anything, it made things worse. People could come up with nonsense on the spot, but no one could explain what happened to Jon. None of his siblings had a clue, either. No one did. Jon's disappearance had left a hole in their lives that nothing seemed to fill. Arya always seemed to be sullen and angry, Robb was quiet and sad, father was always worried, and mother, well, mother seemed to be thinking about something a great deal nowadays. Bran also knew that she and father were still arguing. After whatever had happened to Jon, it had left Winterfell feeling cold in a way that had nothing to do with the North. Wherever Jon was, he hoped he was okay.

And then there was the other dream; the one he hated because of how real it felt to him.

_He dreamed of Jon kneeling in snow as a blizzard raged around him. It was so cold that seeped into Jon's very being. His hair turns white, then his skin becomes blue. At some point, he would look up to meet Bran's eyes. Jon's eyes would be blue, too; all the way blue with the black of his pupils the only other color. Tears would begin to roll down his cheeks, but it was so cold they froze on his blue skin. He tried to speak, but his words sounded like crackling ice. Ice and frost crept over Jon until he turned to solid ice; trapped and frozen in the snow..._

* * *

Catelyn found herself in the sept more and more within the past months. She prayed to the Crone for guidance and understanding, the Mother for compassion and forgiveness, the Father for justice and judgement, the Smith to repair her breaking family, and the Warrior for courage in this trying time.

"_He is not my son, Catelyn." Ned had told her with a haunted look, "He is Lyanna's."_

The words haunted her even to this day. When he first told her, Catelyn had thought him lying, but as Ned had explained it more and more, everything had come clattering together with frightening speed; why he had never told her who the mother was, why no one had a clue, and why Howland Reed had stuck to the Neck for all these years. Furthermore, the implications were...terrifying.

"_I must find him Catelyn. I made a promise to her that I'd protect him."_

And now he was gone.

Lyanna's babe. The Silver Prince's son. A Targaryen prince raised as a bastard. The heir to the Targaryen dynasty had been under their roof for all this time. Catelyn's mind at heart had warred at each other for so long, after that night where Ned's shocked eyes stared right through her. The stain on her husbands honor mixed with the nephew he had sworn to protect in secrecy. A boy she had wished dead on so many occasions. Lyanna's boy. A prince raised as a bastard. True born. End had told her of the name Lyanna had given her babe in the Tower of Joy. Aegon Targaryen. Not Aegon Snow, or Sand considering he'd been born in Dorne.

Somehow, some way, Rheagar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark had wed.

After the initial shock and disbelief, Catelyn had begged at the foot of Lyanna's tomb. Begged for forgiveness of how she had treated her rightful nephew, but she found no solace there, for the stone eyes of her good-sister's statue seemed almost accusatory when she approached. Catelyn felt sickened within her own skin. She had tried to dull her grief by interacting with her own children, but their confusion and worry for their half-sibling (cousin, she thought) was a constant presence, and when they asked where Jon had gone, she had no answer to give. Jon's absence had created a void; one that she had no idea how to fill.

One day, Arya had even asked if she knew where Jon was, as if Catelyn had something to do with his disappearance.

"_You always hated him, mother! I could see it in your eyes when you looked at him. You wanted him gone. I just want to know where-"_

"_I don't know, Arya." She had answered. "I don't know." _

Arya had stormed away from her, then, angry and hurt.

Her lord husband had been surprisingly tight-lipped when it came to talking about what had happened in the crypts between him and Jon on that fateful night. Whatever had occurred scared Ned so badly that it took almost a full week of her prodding and demanding to know the truth, the full truth, for him to relent. When he finally told her exactly had happened; of a grown man in place of a boy, Jon's sudden knowledge of the truth and his claims of the future and pleas for Ned to prevent it. Then came the cold wind and burning blue eyes. Catelyn was at a loss. It was another mystery added to the life of Jon Snow...or was it Aegon. Gods be good, she had no idea what to call the boy, anymore. She still hadn't forgiven Ned, either. Her anger, her shame, and her sadness put distance between them.

Then, as the search parties kept returning fruitless and Ned's lengthening silences cut her like a knife, as the questions from her children increased, and the strange reports of something _inhuman _came in, Catelyn had begun to fear. As more and more of the reports of whatever was undoubtedly Jon kept coming in; sightings and speculations of things no one could understand, a part of her mind began to whisper.

_"What if this is just the beginning?"_

The Targaryen madness was a powerful thing. The Mad King was a prime example and the worst of them all, by far. Aerion Brightflame was another. Both had been mad and both had been cruel. Fire and Blood; the words of house Targaryen, and their history was seeped in both.

_"What if the boy has the same madness? What if his mind has come undone? _

Catelyn knew she had been cold to him. Cruel, even, now that she had time to reflect on just what he is. She'd shunned him, made sure he felt unwelcome, and never failed to remind him of his place, but if there was never a bastard, why did her stomach still curl at the thought of him?

_"What if he wants revenge?" _

She had not voiced this fear to anyone, not even her husband. Ned had made her swear never to tell anyone the truth, but she could not keep that promise. After all, Ned had lied to her before, as well. Even if it was for the right reasons, it was still a lie. He should have trusted her; his lady wife, the mother of his children.

The raven was already on its way to her father in Riverrun with her letter asking for help and advice on what was undoubtedly the biggest scandal in the entire realm.

Now, she prayed to the Seven that she had made the right choice, and then, quietly, she sent a prayer to the Stranger, asking for the peaceful death of Jon Snow, so that his threat to the stability of the realm and her family would end once and for all.

* * *

"Mercy, please! Mercy-"

Jon cut the man's pleading off with a stroke of his sword. This one and his four companions had been bold; attacking the smallfolk in broad daylight. Jon supposed that his nocturnal activity had driven the scum to start attacking during the day. Word of him was spreading, and criminals were getting desperate and smarter at the same time. He was most powerful during the night, after all, and his power seemed to be growing. It was easier to use now, where before it was like trying to chain a blizzard to his will, and the only way he could use it was to let go of the chain. The freezing mists came easy, he could flash-freeze the surrounding area in a ten yard radius, he could look **_Further_** than ever before, and he had gotten even faster in terms of speed. Jon could travel from Tumbledown Tower to Torrhen's square in over a day, at top speed in a dead sprint. The western half of the North was under his protection, and his near nightly patrols were stretching further and further east. Unsurprisingly, the east was ripe in terms of rogues. Hell, he'd slain almost a dozen men in the livery of House Bolton on principle. The disgusting taint in there souls had to be extinguished before their destructive flames scorched the North any further.

Bloodraven's assistance had been a welcome one. After the initial shock of Jon's origins, the Three-Eyed-Raven was quick to inform him of the Other's activities, as well as the Free Folk when Jon asked. Mance was still gathering the last of the clans with the Others hot on their heels. The Raven had asked Jon about his plan for defeating the Night King. Jon thought it rather obvious, really; climb the Wall, find the king, and kill him in that order. Bloodraven had looked at him rather oddly after that. The following argument had nearly shattered their alliance, however.

_"You do realize that it will not be so easy." The apparition of the Three-Eyed-Raven told him._

_"Of course I do, but I know he won't be able to resist me. I'm an anomaly, as you said. He'll want to find me. Once I kill him, the Others will cease to be once and for all."_

_"And what of you?" Bloodraven had asked, "You share his power. The two of you are bound. You may die along with the Others."_

_Jon had shrugged and said, "So be it. My purpose here is to stop the coming wars and protect my family. After that, well...I don't care what happens to me."_

_"You have family, people who love you, but you speak like a man who has nothing left."_

_"I joined the Watch at four and ten. Half of my family died while I was at the Wall. The only family there was my uncle. Nine years passed before I saw any of them again, and only Arya, Sansa, and Bran remained. The people here are not the family I knew. I look at familiar faces and see strangers. They don't know me, Bloodraven, and I don't know them." _

_"Then why wait?" Brynden asked him, "Why spend your time killing rogues and bandits that pose no threat to house Stark? Why do you not go for the Wall and make for the Lands of Always Winter where the Enemy resides?" _

_"I intend to stop the coming wars, Brynden. That means killing the ones who can start them." Robert Baratheon will come North when Jon Arryn dies, and with him would be Cersei and Joffrey. Killing either one of them help in the long run._

_"Are you mad?" Brynden exclaimed, "Your actions would throw the kingdom into chaos!"_

_"I know." Jon told him. _

_Brynden had stared at him for a long moment after that._

_"What?" Jon asked._

_"Are you sure that it is __you__ who wants this?" _

_"What are you talking about?"_

_"When the Night King took R'hllor's fire, how much of the Enemy filled that void?"_

_Jon's eyes widened, "What are you saying?" He demanded._

_"Ask yourself this, Jon Snow; would you truly risk sparking the wars you intend to stop? All for the sake of revenge?" _

_Jon wanted to snap that this wasn't just revenge, that this was his duty, his chance to set things right; the right course of action. Just by killing a few, he could save the lives of many and damn the consequences because the realm would heal, like it always did. It would be better off without them, anyway, but then Bloodraven spoke again._

_"Or is it the piece of the Enemy within influencing you?"_

Jon had told Bloodraven to leave him alone after that. Just the mere _insinuation _of that caused his blood to boil. Jon knew that the Ice in his soul could affect him, but he could control it. He'd been resisting its influences all this time, didn't the all-seeing Three-Eyed-Raven see that?

He was in control.

* * *

Across the Narrow Sea, a girl dreamed as well.

_She dreamed that she stood on a field of black and white. One half was coated in ash, the other was covered by snow._

_Bodies lay in the field; burnt husks blackened by the ash or frostbitten corpses frozen solid; men, horses, wolves, lions, ravens, dragons, and krakens. A great battle had been fought here that had claimed both sides. Flickering tongues of orange, green, red, and blue flames covered both fields like a sea of colorful candles. Such a thing should be beautiful, but instead, it made her very sad._

_A scraping noise drew her attention in front of her. There was a man coming towards her, walking between the colors. He was limping from old wounds, his armor in shambles, and in his hand was a cracked and battered sword that dragged behind him. The tip drew a thin line that separated the snow and ash by a mere inch. His face was downcast and his black hair covered his features, but there was something about him that was familiar._

_"Who are you?" She called out as he got within a yard of her._

_The man drew to a stop and lifted his head to look at her. He was old with worn lines around his eyes and cheeks, a course beard peppered with grey hair, pale and gaunt skin, and dark grey eyes that were old and haunted; empty, and sad in such a way that made her want to reach for him. Those eyes roamed her face, and his features twisted into a grimace before he bowed his head and began to limp past her. As he walked past, she stretched out her arm to touch him-_

-And she woke up with violet eyes wide.

* * *

_**My goal was to have inner moments of characters that I'm going to be working with in the future. I know it's short, but its just how I felt it should end. I just hope it piques your interest. This was also my first time writing something that had multiple inner moments with multiple people, too, without a solid plot to run off of. I feel like it came out a little choppy, but idk, I could be wrong. We're our own worst critic and all.**_

_**I am glad you guys like this story. I have big plans for it and with my (admittedly limited) knowledge of the show, things can be difficult to write at times, but my goal for this story isn't what people would normally write for a GOT or a Song of Fire&Ice fic. I want to try something different. VERY different! Much more focused on the supernatural elements of GRR Martin's world. We're getting close to where things start to get intense, too.**_

_**I'm going to try to start responding to reviews. The reviews fuel me and I will be glad to answer any questions you may have. PM me if you have any questions, comments, concerns. I will get back to you if I can. **__**For Guests, since I can't respond directly, I'll just post it at the bottom. **_

_**Guesty Person: **__**Thank you so much for your review and I found no part of it dickish in the slightest! I'm glad you've stuck with it so far and I actually agree with you with missing a sense of character. I plan to rectify that. At some point, I'm going to binge watch all of it on DVD, but right now I just don't have the time. As for the way I'm writing Jon, I also agree with you. The way he's acting is very OOC and just plainly not like him. That is for a reason. **__**Jon hasn't seen Ned for years! **__**More than that, actually, after the war went bad. This is an alternate universe, and in this one...Jon lost. He lost EVERYTHING. The war, his family, his home, his own country! He just kept losing and fighting a 1-man war against an enemy he had no hope to defeat. Jon is a strong person, of that we have no doubt, but after everything that happens to him before the Deal...he was broken. Defeated. Everyone has their breaking point, and he reached his. This was a man who had lost everything he held dear despite all his efforts and hopes, and then, SUDDENLY, he's offered the chance to rectify it all from the thing he associates with the ultimate evil. Now he's back, but he's not the same. **__**Living a life he can barely remember, it feels like a dream to him. Seeing the faces of people that died, his family, that aren't as he remembers them (Sansa, Arya, Bran, Theon for instance) and are just kids who have no idea what's coming. **__**He doesn't know how to deal with it and react to these strangers he's supposed to know as family. None of them know him or the suffering he'd undergone. **__**As for Ned, well, Jon does not know how to deal.**__** Talking to Ned raises up a lot of issues that couldn't be buried any longer. Coupled with the fact that this Jon is not right in the head, and part of that is due to the Night King's presence messing with his mind and body. He can't think straight at all. **__**In the crypts, everything just came to a head. He wanted to stay, but in his mind, he couldn't stay because he's becoming a monster. He didn't run to hurt his family, he ran because HE didn't want to hurt them. Hope this clears a few things up and thanks again for the review!**_

_**Guest who asked (I sincerely hope that Bloodraven will help Jon mitigate his situation and keep the Night King's powers sealed.): In response to your FULL review...hehehehehehehehehehe. Just you wait and see.**_

_**So, that's all for now. Next chapter, I'm going to try and re-enter cannon starting with the execution of the Night's Watch deserter and the birth of the pups.**_


	6. Chapter 6

Bloodraven was growing nervous, and the one known as Jon Snow was the reason. He had heard the truth in his voice when he had spoken of his tales of a dark future, and believed him. Brynden had also seen power behind his eyes; power that came from the ice of the Enemy. It was unfeasible, inconceivable, that the Enemy would offer such a surrender, if what Jon Snow said was true. It went against their very nature! Now, the future Jon Snow remembered was changing because of his actions, along with his very spirit. Jon Snow may not be able to see it, but Brynden could. There was a bright blue ball of power lodged in the man's heart that constantly flooded his soul with its cold light. The creeping chill that it permeated had grown more and more, and one day, Brynden had no doubt it would freeze him over entirely.

Jon Snow was tainted and being slowly corrupted by the power inside him, and he didn't even know it. Worse, he believed that nothing was wrong. When thy had first met, Brynden believed that the man that had taken the place of a boy was truly unaffected by what was obviously the touch of the Night King. Now, he knew there was no other choice. Jon Snow could not walk through the realms of men any longer. The man may not know it, but every since he had arrived, he had begun hunting the living, just like the Others, only he focused that direction in lieu of less-than-reputable souls that did more harm than good. It was better than Jon going off and slaughtering off entire villages, raising their corpses, and attacking everything that breathed.

Brynden fully intended to help Jon get beyond the Wall, if only to direct him to his Heart Tree and trap him there with the help of the Children. Perhaps from there, they could cleanse him of his taint. If not...well, Brynden hoped it would not come to that.

* * *

Six bundles of fur and whiffling noses surrounded the she-direwolf and suckled at her teats in a chorus of yips and mewls. Jon watched the scene with an odd sense of foreboding. Upon returning to the tower, he had found that the direwolf had whelped six pups; one for each of the Stark children. Only this time, their mother wasn't dead with an antler in her neck. The Stark party would have discovered the mother direwolf and the pups on their return to Winterfell, but instead, she was here, and the Stark children would not know the joy of having a direwolf at their side. Neither would he, apparently, because the moment Jon had moved towards the pups, their mother had all but attacked him. He longed to pet for the small lump of white fur he knew was Ghost, but the message was clear; he was not allowed near the pups.

It seemed time had finally caught up with him, for this was the day Lord Stark executed a deserter from the Night's Watch. He remembered this day. Lord and Lady Stark would be watching from the ramparts as Bran practiced his archery and missed to the laughter of his siblings, their lord father's admonishments and encouragements, and then Arya nailed the bulls eye...would that even happen, now? How much of the life he remembered would play out the same? Jon had been busy with securing the safety of the North and plotting his quest beyond the Wall with the help of Bloodraven. The old greenseer had warned him since the Wall's magic had been designed to repel the Others, there was a very good chance Jon may not even be able to cross it in the first place. Even if he could, he may not be able to return; a one-way trip if he ever heard one. The Night's Watch would never let him pass freely, either, so Jon was either going to try and scale the Wall or go through one of the old castles. Jon knew the Wall; there were plenty of blind spots in patrols and abandoned castles he could hide in if need be. The Nightfort was definitely an option. Bloodraven had told of a magical gate that lay forgotten within its depths called the Black Gate that could get him through the Wall and into the lands beyond. He just had to succeed, and then Bloodraven would direct him from there. All he needed to do now was wait.

Lord Stark would soon receive the letter detailing Jon Arryn's death and the King coming to Winterfell. Along with him would be his next two targets; Joffrey Hill and Cersei Lannister. The Dowager Queen and her golden prince would be dead before they got within a league of Winterfell. Along with anyone else that got in his way. All that was needed now was to wait...

* * *

Jamie Lannister was...concerned was a good word. From what he'd gathered, the King had received a raven from Rivverrun last night and had exploded into a fearsome rage. He'd hadn't been standing guard over the fat man, but he'd heard the man's furious bellows halfway across the camp. Then, Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm had his horse mounted in the middle of the night and charged off into the darkness.

The party had scrambled to keep up with him, and riders had been sent on ahead to try and catch up with the bloody man, but the king was near mad with rage. When they finally caught up to him, he had nearly ridden his horse into the ground and was frothing mad. No one could get a word out of him, not even Cersei and all her nagging. The only orders that Robert had given was to double their speed and get to Winterfell as fast as possible.

What set Jamie's eyebrows to his hairline, was that when asked why, Robert had all but snarled the word "Dragonspawn!" And had said nothing else. That was two days ago and the King was still a silent storm of red-faced rage and stewing hatred. No one understood what had happened. Robert kept the letter on his person and wouldn't let anyone near it. Whatever was happening, Jamie had a distinct feeling it would not end well for whoever in Winterfell was the focus of Robert's anger.

Ah, well. At least it was not as odd as those Red Priests that joined the Royal procession a few weeks ago. They were headed to Winterfell as well. That and a band of twenty men that had caught up with them, saying they were a band of travelers on business to Winterfell from the Dreadfort. All them were as uncouth and savage as the North itself, but Robert's rage and doubling the speed at which they travelled had swept any concerns of their joining out of everyone's mind.

At least, things couldn't get any more exasperating.

* * *

Off the coast of Cape Kraken, a storm was brewing.

Those who witnessed the wind-lashed waves curl towards the black sky and crash back down said that it looked like the sea and sky were at war. At the heart of the maelstrom, a whirlpool churned in the roiling waters.

A white dragon's head erupted from the center, followed by the bulk of a white longship. The figurehead depicted a snarling sea dragon carved from white weirwood with bloody, red holes for eyes. The tattered sails boomed in the wind as the rest of the ship rose from the briny deep; black with a grey kraken emblazoned across it. A crew twenty strong, all dressed in water-logged armor, covered in water-logged cloaks, and coated with seaweed and barnacles, rowed the ship out of the drink with ferocious intensity. The captain stood at the helm with his grey cloak snapping around his powerful frame. His long grey beard and longer grey hair whipped in the wind, his eyes were wide and grayer than a stormy sea, and his very skin was the same color. A crown of white sat upon his head; a crown made from the serrated teeth of a great beast. In his right hand, he held an axe made of gray bone, and in his left, he held a torch made from white-weirwood, scorched black, and burned with an ever-present flame of sickly, yellow light.

The sky exploded with thunder and lightning, as if in protest of the ship and her grey captain, and the grey man screamed a reply; a sound louder than the booming surf.

It was a war-cry; a challenge.

"I HAVE RETURNED!"

* * *

Miles away on the mainland, a man walked the Kingsroad. He had just left the green swamp of the Neck and was travelling north.

His attire matched the color of the swampland; green and leafy, but he was no crannogman. This man was tall and robust with wide shoulders and a powerful gait. His tunic was green, his boots were green, the hooded cloak clasped 'round his shoulders was green, and even the long-handled axe strapped to his shoulder was green as well.

The orange curls of his bushy beard shook in the chilly breeze, and he inhaled a deep breath of the northern air before he let out a long laugh, deep and loud that echoed across the land.

The man stepped forward, and in his gait sprouted winter roses as his hands, greener than any tree, spread wide as if to announce his presence to the land.

* * *

In the heart of the North, an army of blue eyes narrowed.

Soon...

* * *

**_This chapter...took FUCKING FOREVER TO WRITE. I know I said this was going to be Winterfell, but that's next. Seriously, you have no idea how hard this was. In the end I just said fuck it and posted it like-so. I planned for this to be longer, but it just...wasn't, and became a bunch of different things again. Things that I actually wanted to have in the previous chapter, but, well, it just worked out like this. _**

**_This is very short, I acknowledge this and like it as much as you do, but it's better than nothing. I wanted this out last week. Sorry it took so long. At least it shows what kind of crazy fuckery is going to happen._**

**_Bet y'all can't guess who the two newcomers at the end are!_**

**_Enemies on all sides! _**

**_Creation and corruption! _**

**_Madness and Death! _**

**_I need a nap!_**


	7. Chapter 7

_**Notes at the bottom.**_

* * *

It was the singing that woke him up.

He should have known something was off the second he'd woken up from another dreamless sleep. He still did not need sleep, but there were times he slept merely to remember what it was like. Food, water, rest? Such things were now a luxury for him.

The direwolves had been dead silent. That immediately set him on edge because the pups, who were now as big as they were when Robert came to Winterfell, made constant noise in the morning, either gamboling about, growling at one another, or whining at their mother. Then Jon had felt the presence of another in his tower; a presence that radiated pure magic.

Then came the singing.

_"High in the halls of the kings who are gone,__  
__Jenny would dance with her ghosts,__  
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found,  
__And the ones who had loved her the most~"_

_"The ones who'd been gone for so very long,  
She couldn't remember their names,  
They spun her around on the damp old stone,  
Spun away all her sorrow and pain~"_

_"And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave,  
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave~"_

_"They danced through the day,  
And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall,  
From winter to summer and winter again,  
_

_'Til the walls did crumble and fall~"_

_"And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave,  
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave,  
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave,  
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave~"_

Jon peered over the lip of the landing to see a sight that was unbelievable. There was a man, down at the middle of the vault; a huge man in a forest-green cloak, and he was _petting _the mother direwolf. The she-wolf was practically curling into the strangers lap while he rubbed her thick fur. Even her pups scampered around him, yipping in excitement. For a moment, Jon stared, utterly shocked at the sight before him.

Then, the man looked straight up at him, and Jon flinched.

Eyes that were the purest shade of green, like an entire forest had been condensed into this man's gaze, stared into his frigid blue without a single trace of fear. If anything, his eyes were friendly; welcoming, even. A dark, bushy beard, one any northerner could respect and one that rivaled even Tormund's, hid a majority of the man's face, but Jon saw how it shifted when the stranger smiled at him.

"Hello there!" Came the booming greeting followed by a wave of a green glove. Jon stared hard at the green-clad stranger while his grip tightened around his ice blade.

"Who are you?" He called. The stranger just let loose a burst of jolly laughter that filled the whole tower. The sound unnerved him just as much as the sight of the she-wolf leaning into his touch.

"I have gone by many names." The man said while Shaggydog tugged at the hem of his cloak. The big man scooped up the rowdy pup and tickled behind his ears even while he nipped at his green gloves.

"Greenhand, Greenhair, The Green...many unimaginative titles, though it is a color that suits me." Those sharp, green eyes flicked up and down his cloaked frame, "Just as black suits you, my young friend."

Jon jumped from the ledge and landed before the stranger with a loud thud. The pups all jumped and their mother barked angrily at him. He ignored the clamor and glared straight into the green eyes of the green man, who in turned, raised an eyebrow at his actions. It was here Jon faltered because up close, he saw that this man's beard was actually a dark shade of _green_. The same went for the locks of hair snaking out of the shadows of his hood; green as the pines in the wolfswood. What was more, Jon saw that the man was not wearing gloves at all, but it was the color of his hands that were green!

"That looks terrible for your knees." Came the dry observation

The tip of Jon's sword pointed directly at the man's face. If he was anxious of the icy weapon, it did not show. The smile did not abate from his face either, and that ratcheted Jon's unease up a notch.

"_What are you?" _Jon demanded.

"Someone who has not tread foot in this land for a very long time, and someone who has traveled very far to see you!"

A loud caw, the fluttering of wings, and the presence of ancient and familiar magic filling the tower let Jon know that Bloodraven was now here. The greenseer was warged into a raven that watched them from a hole in the ceiling.

"Ho there, Old Raven! Is that you? The last time we spoke was when I planted the Oakenseat!" The green man called up to the greenseer.

Jon stared in utter shock, "You can see him?"

"Oh, yes! I see many things, hear many things, and know many things. Take her for example!" A green finger was pointed at the she-wolf, who was currently huddling her pups away from him towards the back of the tower, "She both loves and hates you! She loves you enough to stay by your side with hope you will change, but hates and fears the darkness growing in your soul. Simply put; your wolfsblood is turning to ice in your veins."

Jon blinked, "What?"

The green man sighed "I forget how you northerners prefer things straightforward. Where's the fun in that, I say? A little riddlespeak never hurt anyone! Well, mostly anyone. Now, look here!" Suddenly, there was a small bag in the man's hands. Jon flinched, for it had not been there a second ago. It was, by all means, a normal canvas bag tied with a simple cord, but Jon knew otherwise. This simple bag was imbued with pure magic. Magic that was of the green man. Said man slowly reached into the pouch and pulled out something small and brown the size of his fingernail; a seed.

"What do you see here?"

"A-a seed." Was all Jon could say.

"To you, it may be just a simple seed, but to me?" He rolled the seed between his thumb and forefinger, "It is a symbol of life, of growth, of hope! What is more, is that it is a symbol of progression! A simple seed may sprout and become the tallest tree or bear the ripest fruit! And if it is cultivated, than it may become even greater!"

The green man slowly began to rise, and Jon's sword arm twitched, "Don't move!" He warned.

"But a seed can not sprout and grow on its own. Seeds need care, you see! They need earth, rain, and sun! A seed needs all three to grow to its full potential. The same goes for the races of men! And you are no exception, young dragonwolf."

Jon went very, very still. There was a sense of anticipation filling the air, an electric charge that Jon knew would lead to conflict, for behind the green man's friendly smile lay a sharpened edge, like a tangled mess of briars just waiting to ensnare him, and Jon had noticed the great battle-axe laying within reach of his green hands.

_**"Look further!"**_

Jon did.

And Jon gasped.

_Lush landscapes, rolling hills, deep forests, great gardens and fields of grain and wheat grew under his hands._

_Men and women from all over the world were taught to plant, reap and sow; guided by his gentle hands._

_Where he walked, farms, villages, and orchards sprouted like stalks of grass. Barren women became fruitful with merely a touch of green fingers, even crones who no longer got their moon blood. Maidens ripened at his presence, mother's brought forth twins or even triplets when he blessed them, and young girls flowered at his smile._

_Lords and common men alike offered up their virgin daughters to him wherever he went so that their crops may ripen and their trees grow heavy with fruit. Any maiden he deflowered delivered strong sons or fair daughters. _

_And When autum ended and winter came, he would sleep until the next spring. _

_Then there were the olden times, where a blood sacrifice was demanded of his worshippers to ensure a bountiful harvest._

_Entire fields withered and died with but a wave of his terrible hands._

_Mortals who displeased him were transformed into trees, bushes, or animals under the power of his wrathful hands._

_Famine and plague blighted Lords who offended him and were struck dead in their castles. Highborn ladies were cursed with barren wombs. __Any who gained his ire birthed deformed and stillborn children. _

_For as easily as The Green could give, The Green could take._

On and on it went; a cycle of growth and birth, life and love, death and destruction. This was a being who had walked the earth for so long, he'd forgotten when and where he took his first step. What Jon had seen was old and ancient in a way that made the stones of Winterfell seem freshly mortared by comparison.

The green man stared at him, "So, you see now, what I am?" He asked.

The temperature plummeted when Jon took a step back with his blade held ready. Frost crackled under his boots and made the green man's breath billow out in steam. For the first time since he returned, Jon felt a twinge of fear.

"What are you?" He demanded once more.

The green man...no, this was no _man. _This was something primal; a force of nature. The only thing he could compare him to was the Night King. Not even the Three-Eyed-Raven held the same amount of ancient power!

The being before him straightened. When he did, his hood fell back to reveal a crown of vines and flowers encircling his green locks. What was more, a pair of antlers, like those of a stag, began to sprout out from either side of his head. He took a step forward, and as if to match Jon, winter roses sprouted beneath his feet through cracks in the stone floor. A green hand extended towards Jon, who gaped at the sight of the color spreading through the man's skin until he truly _was _a green man.

"I am Garth Greenhand!" Came the booming declaration. Eyes of the purest green bore into his once more, "And I am here to see what kind of seed you are, _Night Prince_!"

Jon lunged.

The green hand that still held the seed from earlier came down, and the earth under Jon's feet _exploded. _

Jon went flying in a shower of dirt and hit the ground outside Tumbledown Tower with a jarring thud and rolled to his feet just in time to dodge the enormous axe head that chopped a furrow in the earth. The green dragonglass ripped a gash in his frost-covered cloak, but Jon spun and lashed out with his ice-blade. Even though Jon's opponent was twice his size, he was surprisingly nimble. He all but twirled away from the frosty point and used the momentum to swing his axe in an arc that forced Jon on the back-foot.

Jon dodged three more swings from the huge axe before he stabbed forward at an opening in Garth's guard. It was a feint; the haft of the axe twisted and knocked the point aside. Then, the butt swung up to smash into Jon's face. Jon leaned away from the swing and smacked the axe head away as it came down again. The ice and dragonglass skittered off each other with a loud scraping sound that grated ones ears; a sound Jon was all too familiar with.

Quick as a flash, Garth's hand dove into the canvas bag tied at his waist and scattered a handful of seeds at Jon's feet. All Jon saw was a flare of green magic before they burst into fully-grown beech trees in the blink of an eye. Their thick, snaking branches caught him about the chest and arms and knocked him to the hard dirt once more. Jon snarled and rose to his feet to see Garth watching him through the branches with an eerie light glinting in his eye. Then, the branches parted to let him through.

Jon snarled and swept out his hand. Sheer cold blanketed the area and a frigid gust of wind blew forth into Garth's face, bringing with it flecks of ice and dirt. Snow began to fall and a white mist coalesced around Jon's body. Garth swung his axe, and Jon stepped back into the mist, vanishing from sight. Garth began to laugh as the freezing mist rolled over him.

"Impressive, Night Prince, most impressive! I haven't had a bout like this in ages! Come! Show me more of what you can do!"

_"If you insist."_ Jon thought darkly. Then, he attacked.

He came at Garth from the side, fast as lightning. Garth's head turned towards the sound of his approaching feet and chucked another cluster of seeds at the ground. Jon cursed and leapt out of the way as a few hawthorn trees, accompanied by a smattering of laurel bushes erupted from the ground to block his path. Garth began tossing out more seeds, laughing all the while, and greenery violently came into existence wherever they landed. By the time Greenhand was finished, it was like they were fighting in a part of the wolfswood.

Garth moved through the greenery as easily as a fish through water. Jon had to hack and slash his way through the thick brush and bramble. The freezing mist Jon generated kept Garth relatively blind to his movements, but the legendary High King of the Reach kept pursuit like the finest of bloodhounds. Garth laughed through every swing and parry, each block and thrust. He acted like the fight was some grand tourney put on for his benefit. What was worse, was that Jon felt he was losing. Every time he tried to escape Garth's self-made forest, the green god would throw out more seeds to increase the size of the greenery. The only thing acting in Jon's advantage was his white mist, and that only obscured the green god's vision. His skill with that battle-axe was inhuman, and Jon knew Garth most likely had countless centuries of combat experience under his belt. He was incredibly strong and fast, and Jon relied on every lick of skill to survive when they faced off. Garth was like a mighty oak, and he was just a harsh wind succeeding only in rattling his branches.

Jon slunk behind the trunk of a thick ash tree and watching the blazing green flame, to his eyes anyway, of Garth Greenhand tromp through the trees while calling after him. "Why do you hide, Night Prince?" Garth's voice echoed "Come! Face me!"

Jon's sword slashed through the trunk of the ash tree like a knife through butter and he kicked with all his might. Garth might not be able to see it, but he heard the tree falling and dove out of the way, cackling like a madman. Jon was moving before the tree crashed to the ground. Garth was still getting up. He stabbed down with his sword, but Garth rolled out of the way. Then, Jon's world went sideways. Sharp points dug into his body and he was picked up and rammed into a tree. Garth had charged him like a bull and cast him atop his antlers. Jon kicked and punched, and slashed with his sword, but Garth merely tossed his head and Jon was sent sprawling. He rolled onto his back just in time to have Garth's boot slam onto his chest and the tip of his axe descended for his face.

Jon moved his head out of the way at the very last moment.

_Pain!_

* * *

Bran was excited. The king should be arriving today from what he'd heard! He had climbed to a point on the walls that had a good view of the road to Winterfell with hopes he saw the procession coming. Down below him lay the hustle and bustle of hundreds of servants preparing for the royal party. It was a much more welcome change to the tense air that had been hanging over the castle for the past year. Father had been strained, Mother had been silent, and his siblings had been a mixture of sad and angry. The searches for Jon had been put on hold and everyone had been explicitly told not to mention what had happened with his half-brother.

As for him, well, Jon's absence was like a hole nothing seemed to be able to fill. He missed him fiercely. The dreams didn't help either. They occurred nightly now, always the same one. Jon kneeling in the snow as a blizzard raged around him. His hair turns white, then his skin becomes blue. Jon's eyes would be blue, too; all the way blue with the black of his pupils the only other color. Tears would roll down Jon's cheeks, but it was so cold that they froze to ice. He tries to speak, but his words sound like crackling ice. Ice and frost crept over Jon until he was trapped and frozen in the snow. Bran was starting to think the dreams meant something important, and whatever they meant, it wasn't good.

Movement from beyond the trees drew his attention. A quartet of horses were galloping out of the woods. Bran's eyebrows went up when he saw the yellow and black crowned stag upon one of the banners. The royal party! Outriders perhaps?

Wait, why would outriders be needed if they knew Winterfell was expecting them?

Bran's brow furrowed. Something was...off. He could feel it. They were moving straight for Winterfell at a hard pace. Behind them, just emerging from the tree line a column of yellow, black, red and gold were hurrying to keep up. It had to be the king's party, but why the rush?

And why did he suddenly feel so uneasy?

* * *

Fiery cold pain erupted along his right cheek. He'd had worse, but it had been so long since he had been properly injured. It was merely a cut, but the shock of it...when was the last time he had felt anything properly? Jon suddenly felt like a layer of ice he had not known existed was melting off him. His mind had cleared as well. Something wet trickled down his cheek, and steam rose into the air while the mist around them began to dissipate.

"Ah." Rumbled Garth Greenhand from above him. Jon looked and saw a pleased expression on the big man's face "It is as I hoped."

Jon found himself gasping for breath. "Wh-what?"

Green hands reached for him, and Jon flinched, wanting to move, react, anything, but his body was still reeling from whatever had just happened. Those great and terrible hands brushed a section of his cheek and came away red.

"The blood of Old Valyria flows through you; it wards off the spreading chill, but not forever." Garth looked at him "You are a dragonwolf through and through, Night Prince."

Jon glared, "Don't call me that!"

Garth cocked an eyebrow at him "Night Prince or dragonwolf?"

"Neither." Jon shook his head angrily, "Both."

Garth stepped off him and leaned against his axe, "Ah, but that is precisely what you are! It is what drew me to you! Old things are waking and walking the earth once more because of you! You are a sign that things will change. Some see you as a curiosity, while some see you as a threat. Mortals have not wielded such power in an age. You know it as the Age of Heroes. I remember it as a time where I was worshiped."

The cold was settling back into his system and he felt like he could move again. Slowly, so very slowly, Jon rose to his feet. Garth watched him with a curious eye. Jon eyed the green god right back. Neither made any move to attack the other.

"What was the point of all that?" Jon asked.

Garth shrugged, "For fun, mostly."

Jon's eyes narrowed. I don't believe you." He said.

Garth chuckled, "Very well. I wanted to take the measure of you. When you're as old as I am, you become easily bored. I wished to see what you were; a man or a monster, I was very curious, you see." He openly smiled, "I am very glad that you seem to be a man. Monsters are so very boring. And I do not have to kill you, now!"

Jon stared at him, hard.

Garth's smile widened.

* * *

"Hey, hey! What are you doing with that on?" Father scolded Arya. After he removed her helmet and handed it to Rodrick Cassel, and shoved him out of the way with a "Move!", Winterfell was finally ready to receive the king. The thunder of hooves was the first thing they all heard, then through the gate came a small group of horses. The riders were the same ones he saw ahead of the column. One of them was a fat man dressed in dark furs and very red about the face. He was either flushed with anger, exertion, or both judging by his expression.

Father had immediately went to one knee when he'd rode, and everyone followed. Bran blinked. Was that the king? He was struggling to get off his horse. Bran spared a glance at him and saw that he was staring at father with a look of absolute fury.

"STARK!" He roared once he was fully off his horse.

Father's head shot up from his place on bended knee. "Your Grace?" He asked, shock and a little worry in his tone. The king all but ran forward and grabbed father by his shirt and hauled him up to eye level. Bran's eyes went wide and a shocked gasp echoed through the crowd. Some of the Stark guards drew steel but looked torn between their lord and the king. Father, on the other hand, looked absolutely bewildered.

"Robert-!"

"WHERE IS HE?" The king roared in father's face "WHERE'S THE DRAGONSPAWN!"

And father's face went white.

More hooves cantered into Winterfell as more people arrived. Five men dressed all in red galloped into the courtyard. They wore ornate armor over their orange robes and held spears with points shaped as writhing flames, and there were flames tattooed across their cheeks. Behind them cantered in a group of twenty men led by a woman with a bow clutched in her hand. She looked about with a savage grin and lifted her bow into the air.

"KILL THEM ALL!" She howled.

The men in red and orange yelled out, "THE NIGHT IS DARK AND FULL OF TERRORS!"

More steel was drawn, and the newcomers attacked.

* * *

_**...Work has kicked my ass up and down the block all month. I went to Lancaster for a 4 day vacation and Easter was a fun time, but work...sucks. Yes! Garth Greenhand confirmed. Same for the Grey King. Kinda obvious since I used the words green and grey in every sentence...**_

_**Squeezed this out by midnight! Im going to go back and edit this but for now, sleep calls...**_


	8. Chapter 8

**"**KILL THEM ALL!"

"THE NIGHT IS DARK AND FULL OF TERRORS!"

Those words took only a second to register with everyone before the chaos started. Stark guardsmen rose from bended knee and charged the new arrivals, but the newcomers kicked their horses into a gallop and charged the assembled crowd. Some of them wielded spears and lowered them as they crossed the courtyard towards the assembled Starks. This was supposed to be a welcoming ceremony, and thoughts of hostility had been the furthest thing from everyone's mind.

Ned had enough sense to break free of Robert's grasp while the king was distracted by the sudden attack. He grabbed Catelyn and pushed Robb out of the way as the horses bore down on them. Robb grabbed Sansa while Arya and Bran scattered, and little Rickon was pulled into his mother's arms while they ran. Miranda nocked an arrow and fired from horseback directly into the panicking crowd. Someone screamed and went down with the shaft in their throat. Then the horses slammed into the crowd. Swords slashed, horses reared, and people screamed and died as the twenty killers all but butchered the inhabitants of Winterfell. Then what guards who reacted quick enough came in behind them and hurled their spears through the air at their backs. Yellow Dick went down with a spear in his back while Sour Alyn's horse took a spear in its side and bucked him off.

That was when the warriors of R'hllor acted. As one, their spearheads ignited into crackling flames, then they charged the guardsmen from the back. They smashed the line of the guards apart and distracted them just long enough for Miranda to turn and see it happen. She quickly dismounted her horse and cried out, "INTO THE CASTLE!" to her comrades. The rest of the twenty, now nineteen, dismounted and cut their way straight into the closest entrance into the ancient castle of Winterfell, lost to the chaos around them.

Behind them, one of the red warriors shouted something to his comrades as the Stark men closed in around them. Each drew a vial of something from the folds of their cloaks and, as one, smashed them on the ground. A thick cloud of gray smoke errupted around them that concealed them from sight, and in the chaos and confusion disappeared into the castle as well.

* * *

"You are quite an interesting man, Night Prince."

Jon glanced at Garth while trying to shake off an odd foreboding that was growing in the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong.

"I am?" He asked. Apparently, they were not fighting anymore. The green had faded from Garth's skin, leaving him fair again, and the antlers had vanished as well. Jon would speak with the jolly, green giant, if only to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Yes! You are a contradiction, Night Prince. The blood of Old Valyria and the blood of the First men. A dragonwolf; fire and ice! Now, your song has changed in the most inconceivable of ways! The power of the Others, yet your heart and mind is yours! Death and cold is their domain, yet you are alive, and your blood bleeds warm and red!" Garth shook his head with a deep chuckle, and said "Never before have I seen such a contradiction. The world has rules, dragonwolf, and you have broken all of them!"

Jon's expression hardened in irritation. "Am I just entertainment to you?" He asked. Garth shrugged, but Jon saw the quirk of his beard and narrowed his eyes while his grip tightened on his sword.

"I have walked this land for many years. I helped grow the trees, the groves, the fields, and the forests! North to south, east to west, I ensured this land was green and full of life. I was there when the First Men crossed the Arm, and I watched the Hammer of Waters smash it apart. I watched the Andals invade, the Rhoynar ships burn, and the Targaryen dragons fly through the sky. I have seen many things, Night Prince, but never have I seen the likes such as you. Entertainment? Nay! You are a fascination! And I, The Green, have been the first to greet you after my long slumber! Haha! Interesting times lay ahead, Night Prince, interesting times indeed! Here, a token of my appreciation for such interest!"

With that, Garth simply reached over to a nearby branch within the spontaneous forest and snapped it off with one hand. The wood twisted, straightened, and flexed like cloth under Garth's hands, and when he was done, Jon blinked at what the simple branch had become. The branch was free of twigs and leaves; a solid and straight length of wood as long as his sword. Garth held it out to him.

"A scabbard for your sword." He said, "It will not freeze, break, or shatter from your Other-blade."

Jon froze for just a second, then slowly, he reached forward and took the rough wood from Garth. It was light, and oddly warm to the touch. There was even a protruding knot towards the top with a notch for his belt to slide through. At Garth's subtle nod, Jon decided to test it. To his utter surprise, the icy blue blade sheathed perfectly into the slit at the top. Since Jon first made the blade, he'd had to either carry it around or tie it to himself with leather or rope that would eventually freeze-dry and snap. Jon could see the magic worked into this rough wood shaped into a scabbard. If what Garth said was true, than this was something definetly useful. No more having to carry his blade around everywhere.

"Thank you." He found himself muttering as he went about looping his belt through the notch.

Garth let out another chuckle, "You are welcome, Night Prince." Jon bristled at the title once more. Garth, of course, didn't care and said "However...I would like something in return. Something very simple that only you can provide; your story."

Jon stared, "My what?" He demanded.

"Your story! I wish to know how you came to be. It has been very long since I heard a good story. That is my only request of you."

"Why are you doing this?" Jon found himself asking, "Why all this?" He gestured around him, "Why me?"

Garth said, "I could be droll and tell you 'why not?' But that is not true. I am old and have slumbered for many years until your arrival woke me. Is it wrong to wish to understand that which can change the world?"

"I'm not trying to change the world." Jon replied.

"You already have." Garth said, "The balance has shifted. Magic has returned to this world earlier than was foretold, because of you. The threads of fate have been tangled and twisted, and I am eager to see how this new song shall end." Garth pointed south, towards Winterfell, "Even now, it has begun." Jon spun on his heel and stared. The feeling of foreboding became outright fear. His eyes blazed blue and looked Further into the distance towards Winterfell.

Fear was flickering in the hearts of mortal men within the castle, and within the walls raged the red flames of R'hllor.

For a moment, his heart stopped in his chest and fear seized his mind in a vice.

Then he was moving.

Behind him, the green man watched the dark blur speed into the distance as fast as the north wind. "Seems you still have some fire in you after all." He sniffed. Garth turned and glanced behind him at the so called Tumbledown Tower and smiled. It was even more tumbled-down than before, for an enormous ironwood tree had grown from within the loft with its branches pushing through the old stonework and breaking through the dilapidated roof. It was quite the odd sight and would come as a shock to whoever saw it next. At the entrance of the tower, the seven direwolves stood with their mother staring at the retreating form of Jon, all unharmed despite being in the tower when the tree grew, not that Garth would let anything happen to them. He would never put such magnificent creatures at risk.

A raven alighted on his shoulder, and Garth smiled widely, "Hello, Old Raven." He greeted. Garth had never met Brynden Rivers, but he had known the spirit of the Three-Eyed-Raven since the forests were young and the Children still warred with the Giants.

"You let him go?" Came the voice of the Raven.

"I did."

"He is dangerous." Brynden stated grimly.

Garth nodded in agreement. "Very much so." He said.

"He threatens the balance of this world. Mortals and magical power have never mix well. Look at the Valyrian."

"He is no mere mortal, Old Raven. You live too much in the past. Besides, this world needs change. Ice and Fire alone will never be enough to save this land. Like a garden, old growths need to be cut away to make way for new life."

"This is not one of your gardens, Greenhair."

Garth threw back his head and laughed. He said, "The whole world is a garden to me, Old Raven!"

Suddenly, the mother direwolf let out a bark and took off after Jon with her pups hot on her heels.

Garth smiled, "And that? That is the first sign of new growth."

* * *

In Jon's lifetime, Winterfell had been thrice burned by fire. The first was because of Theon, the second was during the Long Night when Rheagal battled the undead Viserion while Drogon scorched the encroaching army outside. The third and final time was when the Fiery Hand smuggled a cask of Wildfire into the castle during the rebuilding and detonated it. They lost Sansa that day. She died along with a number of Northern Lords caught in the blast. Jon and Bran had been reinforcing the Neck from the Golden Company when it happened. It had been an assassination as well as a declaration of war from the Red God's worshippers. By the time Jon mustered enough forces to retake the castle, the Red Hand had put Wintertown to the torch, slaughtering the 'pagan heathens' of the north in a bloody crusade, and sacrificing northmen en-mass to their Red God. The sight of red fire blazing in his childhood home haunted him for a long time after that.

Now, it was back again; five blazing hearts of blood colored flame. So bright they burned, that they were like a bonfire to his eyes. Magic was feeding the flames of their hearts, feeding their zealot souls as they snuffed out other lives within the castle. How was this happening? Why was this happening? This had not happened in his first life! There were no red priests in Westeros he knew of besides Thoros! Was this what Garth spoke of when he said fate had changed?

Jon ran down the kingsroad as fast as his legs would carry him. The land blurred by in a mix of color while he channeled the Night King's power through his body and willed himself to go even faster. Maybe there was still some lingering effects of being cut with Garth's dragonglass, because Jon was feeling emotions in a way he could not remember experiencing for quite some time. He was gripped by a terror so fierce that his lungs felt starved for air, his thoughts were a jagged mess, and the only thing he could focus on was the sight of Winterfell in the distance. His mind conjured up images of his family being murdered once again. Ned Stark's head on a spike, Catelyn and Robb's throats slashed, Rickon dead and bleeding on the ground, Sansa's charred body, Arya dead with the Night King's blade in her gut...

Before he knew it, the wolfswood was on his right, and the grey towers of Winterfell could be seen on the horizon. The sky had become gray, the air chilled, and thick snowflakes began to fall around him. Jon's only thoughts were on his family as he charged down the kingsroad with a snowstorm billowing in his wake.

* * *

Jamie was well beyond annoyed when he first caught sight of Winterfell. The fat bastard made organizing the royal party into logistical a nightmare when he'd galloped off into the night, and turned everything into a bloody shitshow when he _kept _riding_. _Robert had gone through three horses so far. He'd ridden his first two dead, one after the other, and the one he was currently riding had not been in the best shape from what he had seen. Cersei had been voicing everyone's thoughts with her constant ranting. Joffery too, but the boy wasn't as entertaining as his sweet sister.

He had been leading the party when they first broke through the trees and crested the hill. The big gray rock that was Winterfell loomed in the distance with the little hovel of Wintertown surrounding it. At any other time, Jamie would have listed over a dozen more quips and clever things to say about the cold, bleak captiol of the North, but the second he saw the ancient castle, he knew something was wrong. He first heard screams and shouts of pain and panic, and the clash of weapons. Peasants and guardsmen were flooding to and fro from the main gate, and a crowd of smallfolk was gathering around the place. A sudden suspicion took over him, a dark suspicion that involved that blasted letter Robert received from Riverun. What was more, he had a feeling that those twenty brigands and those five red priests were behind what he was seeing. Everyone had been suspicious about them, and the only reason they were allowed to stay was their claims of having buisness in Winterfell with the oh-so-honorable Lord Stark. That and the fact that their king was a fat fool who let damn near everyone travel with them, regardless of any security risks. Looking back, Jamie realized those twenty-five strangers had rode hard with Robert to Winterfell during this last leg of the journey while the rest of the royal company played catch-up. Jamie's instincts (Who was he kidding. Common sense, more like!) were screaming those curs were responsible for whatever was going on down there. Damn it, he knew the King should have gone with an escort! He had been happy to let the fat bastard ride himself into the ground after the seventh attempt to stop him, but the king had been in a rage and nothing would slow him down!

Ser Arys Oakheart rode up next to him and froze in his saddle when he saw the state of Winterfell. "Ser Jamie?" He asked, unsure of what to do, the fool.

"Tell the rest of the party to halt and stay here and tell the men to be on their gaurd. I'm going to gather an escort and see what in the Seven Hells is going on!"

"What of your sister?"

"Tell her what's happening and protect her!" Jamie snapped.

They were Kingsguard! Shouldn't the protection of the royal family be obvious to the man? When Oakheart rode off to spread the word, Jamie turned and gathered a group of redcloaks on horseback, fifteen strong, and together they galloped down the road towards Winterfell.

The smallfolk quickly got out of their way as they rode through the main gate and looked out over a bloodbath. Many people lay dead on the cold ground, some wounded, others dying, and everyone looked scared and shocked. Guards were funneling into the castle and sobbing women clung to furious looking men. The most furious of all, however, was the king himself.

Jamie heard him before he saw him.

"STARK!"

The big form of the king was plodding quickly across the bloody courtyard and stooped low to grab none other than Eddard Stark, who was picking himself off the ground, and hoist him up by his collar to scream into his face. "WHERE IS HE!"

Jamie's eyebrows met his hairline.

"Robert!" Ned choked out, "Robert, stop!"

"WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS THE LITTLE RAPESPAWN BASTARD!? WHERE IS HE!?"

"Please! Robert!"

Robert bellowed in rage and threw Ned to the ground. Everyone was watching on in horror as the Warden of the North was thrown about by his supposed best friend and hit the dirt with a hard thud. The fat king puffed in either exertion or anger (both, probably) and abruptly drew his sword from his sheath. Jamie watched, stunned into motionlessness as the king stomped towards the unarmed form of Ned Stark and raised his sword with a furious bellow.

An icy wind howled, a flurry of snow blew into the courtyard, and Jamie's horse reared as something dark blurred through the gate at incredible speed and tackled Robert Baratheon off his feet. The king hit the ground with an even louder thud than Stark did. The dark figure, who Jamie saw was dressed in a tattered black cloak covered with frost and snow, quickly rolled to his feet and his hood fell back to reveal long, snow-white hair and an equally white beard. An old man? Impossible given what he'd just seen!

From his place on the ground, Ned stared up in wide-eyed shock.

"Jon?"

His voice was barely a croaked whisper, but the figure turned to him none the less. It _was _Jon, and it was not at the same time. Eyes the same frightening blue Ned remembered from the night in the crypts bored into his. Jon's face seemed to have aged further as well, and looked even older than Ned remembered. If anything, he looked practically ancient with the white hair and beard. There looked to be a fresh cut on his cheek, but the blood had frozen. Jon moved towards him and Ned shivered, for his nephew seemed to radiate pure cold. A hand flecked with frost reached for him. Numbly, Ned took it, wincing at the cold he felt even through his glove as Jon hauled him up with incredible strength. For a moment, they just stared at one another; Ned with steady shock and Jon with solemn silence.

Then there was a bellowing cry of rage, and suddenly, Robert was there with his sword at the ready; the once-great leader of the rebellion reduced to a mindless, fat berserker. Ned tried to pull Jon away, but Jon stepped forward into the swing with his forearm raised to take the blow. Castle-forged steel exploded into a hundred pieces against Jon's limb, and everyone stared in silence as Robert stumbled past them, and right into Jon's fist.

A loud gasp of utter shock passed through the crowd when his blow caught the king in his generous gut and knocked all the air out of him. Jon's next punch landed against Robert's face and sent him to the ground. To his credit, Robert merely lay there in shock for a moment before bouncing back with a roar of rage. He charged Jon with fists raised intending to crush him with strength alone. Jon's eyes were cold as he swiftly ducked under his wild swings, grabbed fistfulls of Robert's clothes, and hurled him clean across the courtyard to land in front of the assembled redcloaks.

Jamie watched with eyes like saucers as Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, _bounced _to a stop in front of him. As more snow began to fall, Jamie looked back up to meet the cold, alien eyes of the inhuman _thing _standing in front of Ned Stark like some demented guard. Something not unlike fear mixed with anticipation (and a little excitement if he was being honest) began to grow inside him.

"What are you doing, you stupid cunts!" Came the slurred growl of the king. Robert slowly pushed himself off the ground and pointed a single finger at the blue-eyed man facing them.

"KILL HIM!"

It took a moment for the command to register for Jamie. It was almost embarrassing for him. He, one of the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, the Golden Lion of House Lannister, the Kingslayer, paralyzed in what might have been fear, but those eyes...they were an unnatural shade of blue he'd never seen before. Bluer than the sky or the sea, colder than the North itself, and he swore on his sword-hand that they _glowed. _The other's didn't seem keen on attacking either. One of them looked to be shaking in his saddle. The other redcloaks weren't the only ones who looked afraid. All the northmen, the guards, the servants and peasants, even the Starks themselves looked absolutely shocked. Lady Stark especially looked like she wanted to vomit and was white as a sheet. Her husband just gaped open-mouthed at the stranger's back. The blue eyes of the stranger narrowed and frost bloomed beneath his feet, crackling over the mud and dirt as the snow fell harder. It's right hand idly drifted to the odd sword that was strapped to its side, and Jamie went stock still. Whatever this..._thing _was, it wasn't human.

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" Robert roared, "KILL HIM!"

That finally jerked them out of their stupor. Jamie was the first to draw his sword and the others followed suit. However, he let the redcloaks charge in first with cries for the stranger's blood, who merely scowled and drew forth the sword at his side in a flash. The blade was unlike anything Jamie had ever seen; razor thin and clear like it was made of glass. Then, its wielder ran headlong into the charge. Jamie was flummoxed because running at men on horseback was certain death! Then, the man's speed tripled, and he became a dark blur among the mounted men with his clear blade cutting through everything. Steel, horses, armor, flesh; all were useless against it. Jamie saw a sword shatter when it made contact with the stranger's head, leaving only the hilt left. Then, it's wielder lost his life when the man spun around and stabbed it into his gut. Just as quickly, he turned and shattered the blade of another man before loping his hand off at the wrist. On and on it went until Winterfell's courtyard was stained with a fresh coating of red and the screams of dying men filled the air. Amidst it all stood the stranger, who was starting to seem like the actual Stranger. Blood was splattered across his pale face and stood out in his white hair, red droplets dripped down the length of his blade and were steaming from the intense cold, and the killer wasn't even showing any signs of exertion. He just stood there, staring at Jamie and the king with an even colder scowl. Then, the stranger began to walk forward. Jamie quickly dismounted and his sword cleared its scabbard.

"Jon!" Eddard called, "Jon stop!"

Jon did not stop. He strode forward with inexorable purpose, past the cowering smallfolk, past the frightened people of Winterfell, past all the faces of a life that seemed like a distant dream, towards the two people that started the downfall of the Starks. As he approached, Jamie Lannister tensed, Robert Baratheon bellowed with rage, and Lord Stark screamed for him to stop-

"Oh, _Coldhands_!"

-An arrow impacted his back.

Jon straightened and turned towards where the shout came from; the abandoned fortress that was the First Keep of Winterfell. The squat and round drum tower was old, smattered with gargoyles, and was taller than it first appeared. It had not been used for several centuries, and had always been empty in both his lifetimes. But now, Jon saw the bodies of two Stark men dead on the ground and over a dozen people clustered around the entrance. A girl that looked to be around Sansa's age leered at him with a bow in her hand and was fitting another arrow into the string. Then, Jon's whole world narrowed in on the small, frightened face staring at him with dark eyes wide and a knife pressed to his throat.

"Brandon!" Lady Stark wailed.

Bran was held in the clutch of a man with a greasy smile holding a sharp knife against the skin of his neck. People were shouting, Lord Stark was yelling, Lady Stark was practically screeching, and chaos was beginning to erupt all around.

_No._

They were too far away. Even with his speed, it was not like he could run up, grab Bran, and move away in time without risking him getting hurt!

"A life for a life!" The girl was screaming, "You took the only thing I ever loved! You took my Ramsay! Now, I'm going to take something of yours, bastard!"

Jon felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. Ramsay? This was about _Ramsay?_

"You want your son, Lord Stark?" The girl cried. She pointed to Jon, "Bring me Coldhands!" As one, her and the others began to retreat into the First Keep.

_No, this could not be happening._

_**Raise them!**_

Jon's eyes fell to the two bodies at the base of the First Keep.

_**Raise them!**_

He couldn't seem to keep a grip on his sword. His whole body seemed to be growing numb and it tumbled from his grasp and hit the snowy ground with nary a sound.

Jon's eyes stayed locked with Bran's as he was being pulled into the shadows of the First Keep. They were wide, fearful, desperate, and they made something inside Jon scream. The last time he saw those eyes, they were empty and dead to the world. Not like this. Not so full of life. Not the eyes of the boy he had called a little brother.

_"I am the Three-Eyed-Raven."_

The words came back to haunt him and sealed his resolve all at once.

He'd sworn to protect his family...

Whatever the cost.

_**"RAISE THEM!"**_

Even if it meant sacrificing a part of himself.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Jon began to raise his arms.

And at the feet of the living, the dead opened their blue eyes.

* * *

**This** **was actually supposed to be twice as long but I feel that its going to be easier to break up what im going to call the Battle of Winterfell(again) into 3 parts. A lot is going to go down and I didn't want to hold off on posting any longer. hope you guys enjoyed this one and I'm sorry for the wait. also sorry about making you wait for the next installment butt It will be worth it, trust me. Things are about to get crazy! Once again, sleep calls. See you next time!**


	9. Chapter 9

Deep in the Land of Always Winter, blue eyes narrowed and frozen lips curved upward in triumph.

_**Yes...**_

* * *

Up in the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton stared out the window of his solar in the direction of Winterfell with his hands clasped behind his back. This was a gamble, a very dangerous gamble. One with very high stakes. The Bastard's Boys, as they were called, may have been loyal to Ramsay, but they were loyal to him first and _only _him. The only one who was not had been that Miranda girl. She was as much a mad dog as Ramsay. Even more-so now, since his bastard died. It was only after a very thorough leeching that Roose began to see how the girl could be useful. A replacement, if you will, for his vicious bastard. The girl was stricken with grief and thirsty for revenge when he had summoned her and laid out his offer. Roose wanted to exact vengeance on whoever killed Ramsay more than Miranda did. Bastard or no, Ramsay had been his blood, and an extension of himself and House Bolton. Coldhands, the title they'd given to his killer, was still at large and they needed more information. Roose told her that if Miranda agreed to work for him, they would both get the revenge they craved.

Her first commands were to ride to Weeping Water and interrogate the smallfolk for any and all information on Coldhands. Results were mixed and varied. The smallfolk thought him some vengeful spirit with powers over ice and cold sent to punish the wicked. Miranda did him one better and brought the girl Coldhands rescued before him. The girl told him everything that happened the day Coldhands killed Ramsay with little coercion, and her story matched the other eye-witness accounts. He had the girl sent back to Weeping Water, but ordered Miranda to slip her a slow working poison before they arrived. An idea was a powerful thing. The actions of Coldhands could be seen by hotheaded fools as a way to spark rebellion while the girl could be used as a symbol for rabble-rousers to gather around. Roose would not take that chance. A peaceful land, a quiet people; that was his motto.

Roose eventually discovered Miranda's plan to hunt down Eddard Stark's bastard, as the girl fully believed the boy to be Coldhands. Oddly enough, after some quiet investigation, he had found that there was a kernel of truth to that statement. The Bastard of Winterfell had vanished into the night almost a year ago after a strange occurrence of events. The details were few and far between, but what he'd gathered was the boy had nearly been killed by some unseen force. Ghost knives, the rumors said. When the boy recovered, he had gone wayward and strange, then one night, he disappeared. Lord Stark had been hunting for his lost bastard ever since. What's more is that Stark had been trying to keep the whole thing quiet and was ignoring the questions and concerns of his neighboring vassals about his actions. All of the unrest happening in the west could prove advantageous if things continued.

Then came the arrival of the Red Priests and things...changed. They arrived on a boat from Volantis of all places and were ferried up Weeping Water. Then they requested an audience with him, claiming they had information on Coldhands. Curious, he granted them an audience and listened to what they had to say.

The five men claimed to be of the Fiery Hand, led by a high priest named Benerro of the Red Temple of Volantis. When asked what they were doing here, they explained that their god had sent many of his followers visions of a great darkness that had come into the world; an imbalance in life itself. One of the Cold Children of the Great Other, they called it. They spoke more visions; visions of a castle ruled by wolves being a foothold for the Great Other, and how a flayed man and a pack of wild dogs would be their downfall. At any other time, Roose would have had them flayed alive for wasting his time with such nonsense, but then, everything changed when he saw what was in the flames.

He had merely glanced towards his hearth. The fire had been freshly stoked and was warming the whole room, but Roose..._saw _something within the orange flames; _himself, _and he was wearing a crown.

Not just any crown; the crown of the Red Kings of old, and it was on _his _head.

He had seen much more in those crackling flames. He saw direwolf banners burning, Eddard Stark and all of his family's heads on spikes and their bodies flayed. He saw himself wielding the sword Ice! He was Warden of the North, no, _King _in the North, ruling from the seat of Winterfell itself! He saw a generations of Bolton Kings forging a dynasty that would last over a thousand years! Then, the beautiful sight was snatched away when _it _appeared_. _A blue-eyed shadow that stared at him from the dark. Roose saw the dead rising from the grave, the Dreadfort partially destroyed and frozen under thick layers of ice, and the flayed man of house Bolton lost forever; buried deep in the snow. Two paths for him and his House, one was eternal glory, the other death and destruction, and all of that was balanced on a knife's edge; a single course of action that was portrayed in crystal clarity to him in another vision.

A flayed man unleashing a pack of twenty dogs upon Winterfell, taking and burning it with five candles lit with red fire.

Roose was a northman and followed the Old Gods, but this...this was something solid and real in a way no amount of time spent praying in the godswood compared to! There was no mummery, no tricks. Only what was, without a doubt, pure magic! The warriors of the Fiery Hand saw his expression and followed his gaze into the hearth as well. One of the dark-skinned men asked, "What do you see?" And Roose told him.

"It seems the Lord of Light favors you, Lord Bolton." The same man said in heavily accented Westerosi, "Some take years to see visions in the flames and even more time to decipher their meaning, but your path is clear. Help us, Lord Bolton. Help us purge the taint from this world, and R'hllor will light your path to victory."

Of course, Roose did not immediately agree. As pretty and tempting as the visions were, it would be beyond foolish for him to just accept. Simply attacking Winterfell was not something one does on a whim. His family had took and burnt Winterfell more than once, but that had taken time and planning. So, he told the five warriors that they will remain as his guests for the time being while he thought on this matter. That night, Roose underwent a thorough leeching to clear his mind. For once, the leeches did not work as he had hoped. Every flickering flame from his hearth to the candles on his desk displayed his family's grand and glorious triumph over the Starks and the banner of the flayed man hanging high for all to see as the rightful rulers of the North. Whatever this Lord of Light was, it was very persistent. Roose thought long into the night while he idly went through old tomes and written accounts by his ancestors that had been Red Kings. Royce II Bolton succeeded in taking and burning Winterfell, and his namesake, Royce IV Bolton, did the same three hundred years later. It had taken large armies, strong leadership, and strategy to perform such actions. Of course, the Starks retook Winterfell with the same methods everytime .

Now, Roose was not one for flights of fancy, but as the night progressed he found himself captivated by the continuous visions in the flames and pondered how he might go about taking Winterfell. He'd need time to muster his forces and getting the logistics in place, not to mention keeping such hidden from Stark's attention. Then again, Stark was already distracted with the arrival of Robert Baratheon in Winterfell. An attack on the seat of the North while the King himself was in the walls of Winterfell would be a blow against Lord Stark's image. If the Warden of the North could not control the lands he governed, than he should not be governor in the first place. No one would dare attack a castle that the king resided in, especially in the home of the honorable fool. It was unheard of! Inconceivable! So much so, that such a thing just might work...

Yes, he could see it now. The gates of Winterfell would be well guarded yet open for all merry-makers and fellow Northern Lords to come and greet the king. A team of men could slip in and cause a fair bit of chaos while the revelries were about. There were certainly enough bloodthirsty madmen and cravens that would be more than happy to undergo such a task. Better yet, they could ride hard and join the royal procession. Then, when night falls, kill as many people as possible and get out just as quickly. If he was lucky, the blood of one of the royal children on Stark's hands would suffice as a fitting distraction while Roose mustered his forces. Roose knew what Robert Baratheon was doing here in the first place; to name Stark as his Hand. If he took Stark along with him, that would leave Ned Stark's son, a green boy who knew nothing of the ways of war, as Lord of Winterfell. He could overwhelm the pup and take Winterfell with ease if he so chose. Yes, it would be glorious, but there was one problem holding him back. Ned Stark was friends with the King. In his opinion, Baratheon was a warmongering, short-sighted fool who thought winning and ruling to be the same thing. A terror in battle but a terrible king. If Roose did take Winterfell, Baratheon would turn right around and march back to reclaim the ancestral home of his friend just for the sake of being at war again. He could take Stark's remaining children as hostages, but Roose knew it would not last. If only there was some way he could turn the King against Stark. That would be a masterstroke!

Roose was just about to give up his thoughts of treason and bloody conquest when the visions in the flames changed. Now, he saw a crowned stag along with the twenty dogs. It led the charge towards Winterfell with antlers lowered and puffing with rage.

Roose finally had enough.

"It will take much more than pictures and metaphors to convince me." He spoke to the open fire, "Give me something I can believe."

A log shifted and sparks flew up the chimney, and it was there he saw the king himself, as if Roose was some crawling thing too small to see, cracking open a letter that bore the sigil of House Tully. There was a second letter folded within the first.

_To His Grace Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, The Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm._

_Your Grace, I write to you of treason within the North. Attached to this letter is one I received from Winterfell, written by my daughter, Catelyn, wife of Eddard Stark. It is written in her hand, and she has never lied to me before. _

It was only for a moment, but when Roose saw the words, they became burned into his mind forever.

**_Father, _**

**_I write to you from Winterfell with news of the upmost secrecy. My husband never sired a bastard. The stain upon his honor that I have dealt with for so long is not a Snow. The boy is a Targaryen. What is more, he is Ned's nephew; son of Lyanna Stark and Rheagar Targaryen. Ned tells me that he found him in the Tower of Joy when Lyanna was on her deathbed, and my goodsister named the babe Aegon Targaryen. There was no rape or kidnap. Ned tells me they must have married in secret. By blood and birth, the boy is the VI of his Name, rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. What is more is that the boy has somehow discovered the truth of his birth and has run off. No one can find him, and I fear the boy has the Targaryen madness, for a string of murders have been occurring across the North. Please father, you are the only one I can trust with this secret. Whatever council you may offer, I am in desperate need of it. _**

**_-Cat _**

_Your Grace, I do not know how much of this is true, but if so-_

Roose never got to read the rest of Hoster Tully's letter. He watched the King fly into a rage and disappear out of his tent. Then, the scene was replaced by a white wolf with blue eyes and dragon's wings.

Roose had stared into the flames of his hearth for a long, long time that night. When the sun finally rose, he called forth the five members of the Fiery Hand as well as Miranda, and put the plan in action. The Red Priest had rode out to meet Robert Baratheon's party with Miranda's troop a days behind so as not to draw suspicion; it would look very odd for them all to ride in together.

Outside, his men were readying themselves for the march on Winterfell, and soon, the North would be his.

* * *

Damon Dance-for-me was the one holding the knife to Bran's throat, and he froze when he felt a hand wrap around his ankle. When he looked down and saw the dead Stark guard he had killed mere moments ago staring up at him with eyes that were open and blue, he screamed and dropped the knife from the young Stark to plunge it into the head of the dead man that leaped up at him from the ground. Damon screamed again when the corpse kept attacking and savagely bit into the flesh of his neck and tore it out in a spray of gore. Miranda and her men collectively turned and stared in shock without noticing the other slain guard rise to his feet, heft his spear, and drive it into sour Alyn's back. The man arched and yelled in pain, and once more, all heads turned to see another one of Miranda's men fall dead to a corpse. Grunt jumped forward and bashed the blue-eyed corpse in the face with his mace, barely staggering it, before it lurched forward and stabbed him in the gut with its spear; its face a bloody ruin with the nose crushed and one eye dangling loose.

Bran chose that moment to run. He darted around the dying form of Damon and the corpse atop him. One of the Twenty was hacking at it with a sword, but it did little as it rose and attacked the living again. He ran in the direction of his father, who was shouting orders at the Cassels and four other guards surrounding his family. When mother saw him, she cried out his name and he all but jumped into her arms. Everyone else seemed to have drawn steel or run into the safety of Winterfell.

Jon was...overwhelmed.

He had no idea what to expect. He expected he would find it difficult or feel resistance, perhaps the sensation would leave him feeling wretched and sick, but he would have never guessed raising the dead came so easily! It felt like all this time, he had been a small stream, but only now joined a vast and powerful river of pure magic flowing into the great beyond.

As his hands rose, that very power gathered and grew inside the corpses, bid them to rise, and filled them with one terrible purpose; to kill the living! The magic suffusing the corpses made them were extensions of his will. Jon knew this, not just from the memories of the Night King or his own experiences, but an instinct brought on by the cold power inside him. He knew he could easily control them like a puppeteer with puppets, but that required focus. It was much easier to let them run wild.

Two were not enough. He knew this, watched it happen as his two wights were hacked to pieces.

_**"More." **_Said the voice in his head.

Jon agreed. Behind him, the corpses of the redcloaks and the horses he'd slain all at once opened their eyes to reveal orbs of blue. As one rose to their feet and clustered around Jon. It was so _easy_, so _simple, _to bid them to rise!

This is what he had been afraid of?

This power?

This _gift?_

_**"A second chance!"**_

Yes! He _had_ been given a second chance! One where he had the power to conquer the known world if he chose! No one would ever be able to threaten them again! Not the Lannisters, Baratheons, Ironborn, or Targaryens! Against the realms of men, the Night King's power was _**unstoppable!**_

But first...

Jon's eyes focused on Miranda. He saw her sick, sad little flame flickering in her heart as she and her foolish companions stared down death. He did not move, did not speak, nor made a single motion. He needed not utter a word. All he had to do was _**think**_, and his wights obeyed_**.**_

_**"Kill them." **_

They did.

All at once, they surged forward at the Bastard's Boys while the foolish curs tried to retreat into the First Keep and died at the entrance. The horses reached them first and trampled Ben Bones and Luton to death. Then the human wights slammed into the rest of them. Twenty good men died under a mass of dead men with slashing blades, gnashing jaws, and grasping hands. Miranda died screaming as the wights tore her apart.

He did not watch the rest of the slaughter. Instead, he stooped to pick up his Other blade from the ground and turned just in time to catch Jamie Lannister's blade in the face. He blinked as the blade shattered into pieces against him. Why was Ser Goldenhand attacking him? Then, memory caught up to him and he scowled. This was not the just man he remembered, no.

This was the _Kingslayer._

Jon glared into the wide, green eyes of the Lannister knight before he smashed his hand directly into Jamie's golden breastplate, and sent him flying across the courtyard. Air exploded from Jamie's lungs when he hit the cold ground and he lay there in a daze, coughing and seeing double. All of a sudden, Ser Arys Oakheart charged through the open gates accompanied by the rest of the kingsguard and what looked like the rest of the redcloaks. The king was nowhere to be spotted, but the second they saw the surrounding slaughter, they all tensed and zeroed in on Jon.

Before they could react, Jon commanded the rest of his wights to attack with Miranda and her Twenty to rise and join the horde. Over thirty wights threw themselves at the opposing group, which numbered around sixty, and more screams filled the air. All of this happened with Jon not even breaking his stride as he bore down on Jamie Lannister.

Slowly, as the air returned to him, Jamie looked up into the unforgiving blue of his attacker looming over him, and froze as Jon lifted his blade high with both hands, a cold scowl playing across his face, and brought it _**down!**_

_**SCHWIIIINNNGGG!**_

A harsh and discordant sound, the sound of two materials that were complete opposites in every way reverberated in the ears of all who witnessed the Other blade crash into the greatsword Ice_. _

Ned had gathered his wife and children death while chaos raged around them and ordered Rodrick and Jory along with a contingent of guards to get to safety. His ward had been the only one unaccounted for, but Theon had shown up not even a minute later out of breath with the ancestral blade in his shaky grasp, which he shoved into the hands of the Warden of the North. Ned had ordered him to go with Catelyn and unsheathed _Ice_ just as Jon sent Jamie Lannister flying, and ran to intercept. He'd seen what the blade in Jon's grasp did to normal steel, and if Valaryian steel didn't hold fast, then nothing would. Despite his ire at Tywin Lannister's eldest son, he did not want him to die. More importantly, he did not want Jon to kill anyone else.

Blue eyes shot up to glare into wide, Stark gray as Valaryian steel made contact and held strong.

For a moment, Ned stared into the face of his nephew, and Jon stared right back. Jon's skin had become so pale it looked to be acquiring a blue tint, and his cheeks were stretched taught against his flesh like he'd been starving. Ned swore Jon had not looked like that just a few minutes ago.

Jon, in turn, saw the man he had called father, but was his uncle. The most honorable man he had ever known, someone he had striven to emulate, his hero, had taken his very identity from birth and cast him in shadow and shame; his name, his heritage, his family, his life.

Jon looked upon the face of the uncle who had raised him and knew him only as a _**liar.**_

Ned all but begged him as their blades remained locked, "Jon, stop! I don't want to fight you!"

_**"KILL HIM!" **_

Lips pulled back in a wolfish snarl as an unholy, freezing _rage_ coursed through him that bordered on hatred. His even colder blade reared back for another swing, and the Other blade clashed against _Ice _with another explosion of sound. Ned grunted hard and dug his boots into the dirt before swinging his greatsword down to parry the bastard-sword. Jon pressed him forward with a barrage of fast and strong swings that Ned barely managed to block. Their blades locked again in a brief stalemate, and Ned found himself dumbfounded. His nephew always possessed a talent with a blade, but this? Ned was finding himself hard pressed to keep up with the skill, power, and finesse before him. It was like fighting Arthur Dayne all over again!

The next time their blades locked, Ned slammed his shoulder into Jon to knock him off balance. It was like ramming a block of frozen meat, but it did the trick. Jon stumbled but found his footing a second later, and Ned backpedaled to create some distance. Jon's unblinking eyes locked with him and he slowly started stalking after him.

"Jon, listen to me!" Ned gasped.

"Listen?" Jon hissed, before shouting, "WHY WOULD I LISTEN TO A LIAR!?"

Jon charged. Ned gritted his teeth and met the charge head on. He side-stepped Jon's thrust and swung Ice in an arc that Jon leaned back to avoid. The bastard-sword whipped around in an overhead arc and caught against Ice. Ned held him there for a moment with a strength he knew he didn't have, then he caught Jon's blade on Ice's crossguard to shove it away and contort his body to throw an elbow into the side of Jon's head. It connected and Jon's head whipped back as numbness shot up Ned's arm. Jon's skin was harder than any man's ought to be, and Ned quickly made space between them while the pain in his elbow died down.

"Why are you doing this!?" Ned cried out. With Jon's words echoing in his ears, he then yelled, "I never lied to you!"

"You lied to everyone, _uncle_!" Jon spat and jabbed the tip of his blade in Ned's direction "Your wife, your king, your family! You may have never told a lie to my face, _but you never told me the truth, __**either!"**_

"I had to protect you!" Ned pleaded, "Your mother-"

Jon's eyes flared like blue coals in a stoked hearth. "My MOTHER? You mean, your SISTER?! My _AUNT LYANNA? _Seems you did tell me a lie, after all! How honorable, Lord _Stark!"_

They met again in a clash of bitter yells, discordant steel, and wounded hearts while the snow came down thicker and thicker. Uncle and nephew circled each other like combating wolves with blades flashing and teeth bared.

"She made me promise to protect you!" Ned said through gritted teeth during a lull in the fight.

Jon, unforgiving as winter itself, looked into his eyes and snarled, "You _failed!"_

Jon lunged and Ned dodged, twisting Ice up to catch him. Jon smacked the greatsword aside with enough force to break Ned's guard and leave him open for his next thrust aimed right for his uncle's chest. Ned side-stepped and swung Ice up in an arc that shredded through Jon's roughspun cloak and caught skin. A bead of red dripped down the tip of the greatsword and left a single red dot on the falling snow. Ned stared at it in horror.

Jon didn't even seem to register the sluggish leaking of his blood from the slice on his bicep. Pain was an old friend to him. He knew pain and everywhere it could hurt; body, mind, heart, and soul. Throughout his life, it seemed all he knew was nothing but pain! Pain and cold!

Cold.

Cold, ice, frost, and snow.

That's all he was now; _**cold.**_

Jon looked towards his uncle who was looking between his face and the wound on his arm.

"Jon," Ned croaked, "Don't make me do this!"

Jon said nothing and just attacked.

Ned's resolve was shaken. He barely got his blade up in time to parry Jon's attack and defend against the following exchange. His nephew's speed was incredible, and each strike sent shockwaves down his arms. Everything changed when Jon feinted left and slashed at his legs. When Ned blocked the attack, Jon swept his sword upwards and nearly ripped Ice from his hands. He was on the back foot now, and could barely block as Jon hammered his sword down onto his again and again, like he was trying to beat him into the ground. With a final yell from Jon, Ice was knocked from Ned's grip with one mighty blow and clattered into the snow. Ned collapsed to one knee, defeated and tired, breathless from the fight. He looked up and found the tip of a sword made of solid ice pointed between his eyes.

Jon was standing over him, and his face shook Ned down to the very core. Pure blue eyes were wide and manic, his skin had turned even bluer and drawn even tighter across his skull, patches of solid ice formed across his nephew's skin like lesions, and the beginning of what looked like spikes were growing around his forehead. Jon didn't even look human anymore. Idly, Ned noticed that a few of the dead had separated from the main pack and were surrounding them in a loose circle. All of them were staring at Jon who stood still as a statue, clumps of snow collecting in his hair and on his shoulders.

Ned's shuddering breaths came out in puffs of steam as he looked up into the alien eyes of the boy he had collected from his dying sister's arms, the boy he had loved as his own, the boy he had lied to...

"I'm sorry." The words tumbled from his mouth. Whatever his nephew had become...he still loved him. "Your mother...she...she begged me on her deathbed to protect you. I-" Ned's voice caught in his throat, and his next words came out hoarse and ragged."I did what I thought was right, Jon! You are not my bastard, no, and you do not carry my name, but even if you are my nephew, I love you as my son, and I always will!"

A muscle in Jon's face twitched.

"Please, Jon! I know not what has happened to you, but I beg of you, put down your sword! Whatever's wrong, we can fix this! Together!"

The tip of Jon's sword began to tremble. His brow furrowed and the arm holding his sword began to shake.

"No..."

The words were whispered in a low, frightened tone; the sound of someone who had just discovered something terrifying.

"No, I don't want this!"

Jon's left hand shot out and gripped his sword-arm. He seemed to be trying to pull it away from Ned, who looked on it utter confusion. The wights surrounding them began to close in with slow, shuffling steps. Jon's eyes were wild and scared, now. His body jerked oddly, like he was trying to move but was stuck in place. His sword-arm seemed to not want to budge. A low moan ripped from Jon's throat; a desperate and tortured sound of struggle that struck Ned's core. The sword fell from Jon's twitching fingers and he stepped away from Ned with his hands flying to his head, palms covering his eyes, and he _screamed._

All at once, the dead closed in around them.

Ned ran for his nephew.

His arms caught Jon and pulled him into a fierce embrace, pulling his icy body against his and held him _tight_, held him so that he would never lose him again as the dead closed around them-

A howl ripped through Winterfell. Something large and furry that was all teeth and claws, tackled the closest wight to them from behind and tore it to shreds. Ned looked up and watched a wolf the size of a pony spin and tackle an undead horse to the ground.

A direwolf, and it was not alone.

Six smaller shapes darted about the feet of the wights; biting ankles, leaping high for throats, and ripping out tendons and gnawing off fingers. The wolves surrounded them in almost a protective fashion as more wights seemed to be coming at them. They tore them apart with ease. Ned turned back to Jon and saw that he was clutching fistfuls of his snowy hair. He was muttering something that sounded like "Get out of my head!"

"Father!"

Ned looked up to see Robb and Theon running towards them, swords in hand. Theon stopped just short of them and stared dead ahead at the tide of dead men fighting off a much larger force just in front of the main gate.

"What are you doing!?" Ned bellowed at Robb, "You're supposed to be with your mother and siblings!"

"I'm not leaving you here!" Robb shot back. His Tully blue eyes were hard as they were afraid. Then, they fell on Jon.

"...Jon?" He muttered, utterly shocked.

Even though the sounds of men fighting and dying were just behind them, Jon seemed to hear him. His whole body jerked, and he looked up through his fingers towards Robb, who stared back with eyes wide and face pale.

Jon's eyes were no longer blue. They were dark; Lyanna's eyes, Ned knew. Frozen tracks of tears trailed down Jon's gaunt cheeks, "Robb?" Jon croaked.

"Jon?" Robb gasped.

Jon chuckled a hollow, broken sound, "Last time we saw each other, you said that the next time we meet, I'll be all in black. I'm not joining the Watch, again, but it's still my color, eh, Robb?"

"What the fuck, Snow?" Theon's voice rang.

Jon's eyes flashed back to blue and he twisted in Ned's grasp to glare at Theon with such hatred that it made the Ironborn step back. Jon hissed the word "Traitor!" and made a lunge at Theon with only Ned's grip to keep him from fully rising.

"Stop!" Ned yelled. It seemed to be the few things he was able to say today.

"He's going to betray us all!" Jon raged, eyes still a burning blue.

Suddenly all of the direwolves, save the she-wolf, the grey one, and the white one with red eyes, took off in the direction of the Great Keep.

* * *

Bran's beating heart matched his mother's erratic breathing as she ferried him and his siblings down the halls of Winterfell. Sansa was wide-eyed and scared, as was Arya, and Rickon hadn't stopped crying.

So was he.

Afraid, that is.

The guard barracks had been set ablaze with men still inside. They had seen the column of smoke and the burning barracks as they ran for the halls that led to the keep, as well as people outside and beating at the flames engulfing them. One of the guards had told Jory that the men in orange robes were seen heading inside.

Jory and Rodrick Cassel in front of them and a quartet of guardsmen flanking them. Robb and Theon had doubled back at the last moment before anyone could stop them. Catelyn nearly ran after them with Rickon in her arms. Rory and Jory had to pull her back. She had cried out that they were only children, that Robb had no idea what true battle was like, and damn that Ironborn boy for not stopping him!

They were almost at the entrance to the Great Keep when they were ambushed.

The Red Priests charged around the bend of the next corridor, silent and stealthy as smoke, and two gutted Rodrick and Jory with their spears while the other three came in past them with spearheads ablaze. Mother screamed and pulled them all back as the remaining guards rushed to defend them. They didn't last long and were quickly killed by the expert spearwork of the Red Priests.

"Run!" Mother screamed, "Run!"

They ran back down the corridor and away from the sounds of screams of pain as men died behind them, and the Red Priests gave chase.

* * *

**Pt 2 of the battle of Winterfell. Might break it up into 4 parts with how things went here. I got really excited writing this but started running out of steam towards the end and broke it off there. I'm happy that I got some important parts of what I envisioned in here, and the next chapter is going to be even better. Please put all questions, comments, and concerns in the reviews or PM me. I know there's going to be questions for this chapter, but I'll address them in the A/N next chapter if you guys want. **

**Side-note I keep going back and re-reading my previous chapters and finding little mistakes and misspelled words. I've been correcting them but I know I've missed a few. Don't you hate when that happens? **

**Thank you, everyone who reviewed/followed/faved! I'm blown away by many people like this lol! ****Longest chapter by far and ANOTHER EVIL CLIFFHANGER MUHAHAHA! ****Don't hate me.****...Please?**

**Can't really answer any questions without spoiling anything, but y'all had me cracking up with some reviews.**

**Expect the next chapter soon because I know I am! **


	10. Chapter 10

_**"KILL THEM ALL!"**_

The command was damn near impossible to disobey, but Jon fought it nonetheless, and as he did, he came to a chilling realization.

Bloodraven had been right.

Ever since Jon had returned here, his actions had never been entirely his own. The Night King had been there the whole time and slipping hate into his mind like winter creeping into summer.

It had been subtle, so, so subtle; an urge here, a quashed emotion there, bouts of bloodlust, whispers in the back of his mind proclaiming he was in the right, that he should not stop no matter what the cost, that it would be all worth it in the end. Jon did not know he was being corrupted until he stood above the man who raised him from birth ready to strike him down.

Everything felt broken and disjointed, his mind was in shambles, and he could feel _it; _the collective will of the Others. It was an army of blue eyes and freezing darkness that only wanted to extinguish every flame of life in the known world. Taking that final step in raising the dead opened himself up to that collective mind. His newfound river of magic led him into an ocean, and in the center of that whirling storm of sheer, raw _power, _were the glowing blue eyes of the Night King. Not the fragment he'd brought through time, no, this was the Night King of the _present; _the one that resided beyond the Wall at this very moment, and the one who could control every wight and White Walker in existence, and by extension, _him_.

He had been stupid, so, so stupid to think he could control this power. Whatever Ice was in his soul tethered him to the Army of the Dead, and he could feel the King of the Others pulling on that tether. Even separated by leagues of distance and the Wall itself, the Night King was able to reach him through that river of Other magic. The sensation was like an avalanche threatening to bury his soul and very sense of self in cold and darkness. Jon felt the phantom sensation of frozen fingers gripping his head, arms, and legs, trying to control and direct his movements. Every time he closed his eyes, those orbs of accursed blue were there to greet him. Jon struggled against every command, every pull to hurt, harm, and kill.

_**"KILL THEM ALL!" **_

The command smashed into him again and made him jerk in Ned's arms as he fought against taking up his sword and slaying every living thing with hot blood in their veins.

"NO!"

He roared the words out loud, just to know he still had the power to speak freely. Jon was the puppet now, except he was fighting tooth and nail against invisible strings tugging at his limbs and pulling his thoughts in directions leading to death and darkness.

Dozens of memories were flashing before his eyes. Yanked straight out of his head by an outside force, they were picked apart moment by moment and examined piece by piece until his entire life was unraveled like Arya's stitches. A particular memory was pulled from the depths of his mind and flashed before his eyes like a waking nightmare-

_-Violet eyes glared at him with burning anger. Behind her stood her small army of pike helms, spears, horses, and arakhs. Facing them were the combination of furs and armor of the North and Free-Folk alike, and the remainder of the Vale knights. Drogon wheeled overhead while smoke from the pyres rose into the cloudy sky. Jon stood at the head of them with Sansa and Arya to his left and Bran on his right. Behind him stood Jamie and Tormund who glared right back at the Dragon-Queen with visible distaste._

_"I thought we had an understanding." Daenerys stated in an unyielding voice. She was addressing Sansa, but her eyes were on him._

_Sansa spoke, crisp and clear as a winter morning, "The Night King has not been defeated and the Others have merely retreated. The men are tired and need to rest. No one here is in any shape to march South and the North must prepare for another attack."_

_"The North is one of the Seven Kingdoms." Daenerys responded, "I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and I have commanded the Northern armies to march with me and retake the Iron Throne. Or did you forget that your former king-" She looked pointedly at Jon, "Bent the knee and swore allegiance to me?"_

_There was a deathly pause where everyone held their breath. She spoke with the confidence of a conqueror, a queen, an invader with a dragon who did not understand the risk she was taking. They may have won the battle, but at great costs. Rheagal died killing Viserion. They'd took great care to butcher his body and drop his remains into the sea so that another dragon would not be risen against them. Their armies combined were down to less than half their original numbers, Winterfell had been breached and a good many people had been slain in the Battle for Winterfell. Tyrion, Edd, Grey Worm, Missandei, Sam, Brienne, Jorah, Varys...all their bodies burned in their pyres outside of Winterfell. The storm had subsided, if only for a moment, but they were going to lose the War for the Dawn if they did not bolster the North while the Enemy regrouped. The Army of the Dead would not be stopped. Yes, they needed to unite the Seven Kingdoms, but from the North, not from the South._ _Daenerys disagreed. After she had found the bodies of her knight, her advisers, her soldier, and her dragon, she had been sick with grief. For days, she stayed locked in her quarters refusing to eat or sleep. Of course, she was entitled to grieve over the loss of her friends and allies, (the only true ones she had here, Sansa had pointed out to him one night) but over the following sennight, something inside her changed. She became prickly, irritable, quick to sense a slight, self-righteous and arrogant to the point where the Dragon Queen managed to offend and ostracize nearly all of her Northern allies, even Jon! She acted impulsively. Irrationally. Whenever her actions or decisions were questioned, her only responses were simply to not question her judgement, that it was her destiny to rule. It was like she thought they'd won the war against the Others, when in truth, they had all barely survived the first battle. She acted like she was invincible, like nothing could hurt her. She was the Unburnt, yes, but cold could burned just as much as fire. Jon thought she had looked terrible when Viserion had died, but now? The once regal queen was unkempt and distraught looking. Her hair was a matted mess, dark circles lay under her eyes from lack of sleep, she was pale and wan, and there was a glint in her eye that bordered on, dare he say, madness. _

_Everything had come to a head when she had discovered Sansa's letters. Things had been tense between Jon and __Daenerys since Bran had__ announced his true heritage, and even worse when Sansa defied her at every turn. So, when the grieving Dragon Queen found his sister writing letters proclaiming Jon as the rightful heir, she ordered her execution. __Jon managed to talk her down, but the absolute fury he held towards is Queen did not abate. His temper was on a knifes edge as well. The black hatred he felt at the Night King's escape from Longclaw's blade festered inside him like a disease to the point where he could think of nothing else but slaying the Enemy once and for all. __Then, __Daenerys sent out the __command for them to march on King's Landing despite the fact that the Others were still a threat and completely disregarded how they were essentially boxed in on all sides. The Golden Company was a blockade to the south and the Iron Fleet ruled the seas. _

_Jon stared down Daenerys with an equally cold look. Inside, he was both furious and terrified, a sentiment shared by all. How dare she? How dare this foreign woman who so desperately wanted to rule over them blatantly disregard the sacrifices of not only the people of Westeros, but her own people who died holding back the Long Night? And for what? A throne she had never seen before? A kingdom that had overthrown her family because they had ruined it with the very words of her House?_

_The words of their House, he supposed._

_Fire and Blood._

_That was all that Daenerys had to her name, it seemed; how she built her empires._

_Fire and Blood._

_Yet the words of the Starks now rang louder. Winter had come, and no amount of dragonfire or bloodshed would unite Westeros against the dead. Daenerys would never listen to reason. The entire purpose she had come here, the very reason she fought so hard against all opposition, was for the Iron Throne. Which, apparently, was his by right and birth, and made him a threat to her rule. Jon did not want it. He was not Aegon Targaryen, he was Jon Snow. He could never be a king. How could he be one? All his life, he'd been a bastard. He fought for the North and for the Starks. He was the White Wolf, and had to remain as such if he was to defeat the Others once and for all._

_Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath._

_But, a dragon would never listen to a wolf._

_When he reopened them, he stood a little taller, a little straighter, and stared right back at his aunt with all the fire and fury he could muster._

_So, just this once, he would allow himself to be a dragon._

_He spoke so that his words carried, "I never bent the knee to you. Not truly." _

_Sansa turned her head to look at him with a mixture of utter surprise, happiness, and relief. Arya's lips curled into a wolfish grin while Bran's face stayed blank as ever. Sounds of shock and mutters of confusion echoed around them. Deanery's eyes flared. _

_"You swore-" She began. Jon cut her off, his voice as sharp as Longclaw. _

_"Did I ever bend the knee to you? Truly? Did I fall to my knees and beg for your help? No, I did not. I declared myself for you, yes. When you came to my rescue north of the Wall, I saw your courage and your honor, and I dared hope that you would be the one to save us from the coming storm! When I awoke to your declaration that we would defeat the dead together, I chose you, because out of all the ones that came before, I dared believe you'd be the right one for the Iron Throne! Now, I see that I was wrong! Now, I see that even with the fate of every man, woman, and child is at stake, all you focus on is that damn throne!" He pressed a hand against his heart, right over the scar, "I took a knife in the heart for my people! I died for my people trying to save them from the dead! I'd do it a thousand times over if I have to! Would you?"_

_His aunt spoke imperviously, "We have already won the great war. With Westeros united under my rule, the dead will never-" _

_Jon cut her off again, "Would you die for your people?" He yelled. _

_"...If the North has not fully submitted to me, then therefore, they are not my people." Daenerys all but hissed in a mix of frustration and rising anger. _

_"No," Jon responded, "But they are mine." _

_Her nostrils flared as a cheer rose up from the Northmen. Lords that once glared at him behind his back now looked on with a renewed sense of respect. Jon bared his teeth at her. She demanded obedience and expected love and adoration, but did little to garner such. No one knew her for who she was aside from the Dragon Queen, and she did not make an effort to know them. Jon thought that he'd known her, too. He had been wrong. How could any Northerner respect her when all she had done was come here and ask that Westeros be given to her on a silver platter. Jealousy was alight in her eyes as attention and adoration were given to Sansa, Arya, and himself, instead of her. She received her fair share of praise, but apparently, it was not enough. Daenerys alone had not won the battle. Daenerys had not been on the ground with the troops repelling the dead or traded blows with the Night King. Daenerys had not held Winterfell together, fed the troops, organized the safety of the smallfolk, and held the loyalties of the North. Daenerys had not assassinated Cersei, nor had she slain Viserion. Those had been the actions of himself, Sansa, Bran, and Arya. Instead, she had flown on the safety of dragonback and strafed the wights with dragon-fire. _

_Daenerys Targaryen asked everything but gave very little in return._

_"No one wants you here, anymore." Arya, as blunter than a battering ram, said, "We never wanted you here in the first place!"_

_Daenerys glared at her. Deep down, Jon knew, she was jealous of Arya for taking Cersei's life. Jealous and afraid. She alone had wanted to be the one to end her. Arya had taken Tyrion's face from his body and gone to King's Landing along with Sandor Clegane. There, she got herself captured, escaped, and choked the life from Cersei's body. Sandor fought and killed the Mountain, and with his dying breath, bought Arya enough time to escape the Red Keep. Word soon reached them that Euron Greyjoy took the throne in Cersei's place. The Bloody Wolf, as she had become known as, returned just in time for Deanery's demands that the Northern armies march with her to take the capital._

_"You needed me then and you need me now! The Night King lives! The dead lay just beyond the horizon! You need my dragon and my army if they are to be defeated! I will take the Iron Throne, no matter what I have to do." Daenerys threatened, "And when I do, the Seven Kingdoms will be mine through Fire and Blood!" _

_"You do whatever you think is right." Sansa spoke softly, but her voice was strong as steel, "But what you think and what is true are entirely different." Her eyes narrowed coldly and said, "You have become arrogant and selfish." _

_Daenerys stared at her in such a way that set Jon's teeth on edge. _

_"Then you will burn." She declared._

_There was another tense pause, but then Bran spoke._

_"You'll need your dragon for that."_

_No one expected him of all people to speak, for he had been silent until now. His eyes went white and his head tilted back. Up above, Drogon let out an aggravated roar that drew everyone's attention skyward. The dragon shuddered and shook in the air, but only for a moment. Then, his flight pattern changed, his wings folded, and he dove for the ground. Everyone shouted in panic and fear, but stopped when Drogon hovered over the assembled northern army, facing his mother. _

_Daenerys watched on with confusion and trepidation. "Drogon!" She called for him to come. Drogon stayed where he was. Slowly, Daenerys turned to stare at Bran's motionless form. _

_"What have you done?" She all but whispered in horror._

_"Daenerys of House Targaryen." Sansa's voice carried across the assembled armies like a tolling bell, "I speak to you now on behalf of the North. The North remembers. We remember how your father burned Rickard and Brandon Stark alive. We remember how your ancestors took this country as conquers, through fire and blood. We remember the countless petty cruelties and acts of madness your House committed throughout the centuries. We remember the Dance of Dragons, and the hundreds of innocents lost in the firestorms. The North remembers, Daenerys of House Targaryen. We will remember you for your assistance in fighting the Others, just as we will remember how your desire for the Iron Throne outweighs the good of Seven Kingdoms."_

_Daenerys' eyes became hunted. She looked from Sansa, to Bran, to Jon. Behind her, her forces grew restless as they stared at her son, her dragon, that was facing them instead of their enemies. _

_"I never bent the knee to you." Jon said after a moment, "And, if I recall, I never forgave the sins your family committed against the Starks, either." _

_"Then you are a liar." His aunt stated coldly._

_Jon's eyes narrowed. _

_Ghost slunk to his side. Half his ear was missing, and his white fur was dirty and matted, but he still lived. The direwolf stepped past Jon and stared down the Dragon Queen with teeth bared in a silent snarl. _

_"The Night King still lives. The dead will not stop and winter is here! I will do what is best for my people and family." Jon spoke, cold rage building low in his throat when he said, "Unlike you."_

_Daenerys flinched as if she had been slapped._

_"Your dragon will stay with us until the Others are defeated once and for all." Sansa spoke up, "I give you my word that he will not be mistreated."_

_Daenerys snapped. _

_"DRACARYS!" She yelled. _

_Drogon did nothing but gradually descended to the earth besides Bran. Men scattered to make room when the dragon landed and kicked up a cloud of snow. The dragon was eerily calm and still, with the odd twitch and jerk against Bran's control. Daenerys was panting now. Her breath came out in clouds of steam in the winter air. Her eyes were wild and wide when they fell on Bran's still frame and white eyes. "KILL HIM!" She shouted to her men and pointed to the crippled boy "KILL HIM NOW!"_

_Drogon reared back with mouth open wide and a deep rumbling coming from his throat. Everyone on Daenerys' side screamed and ran just before he vomited a stream of flames, sweeping his head back and forth to spray the frostbitten earth, but no one was harmed. The dragonfire burned a line across the ground that separated the two armies by a wall of flames._

_Daenerys stood closest to the fire. Her clothes were singed and smoking, but she lived up to her title of Unburnt. She and Jon locked eyes through the dancing flames, and he shouted a single word._

_"LEAVE!"_

_Daenerys did leave that day. She took her armies with promises of vengeance, fire and blood, and left. Her and her forces sailed for Dragonstone, but were caught in a terrible storm as they approached, and sailed straight into the teeth of the Iron Fleet lying in wait. The ships had been mounted with scorpions, fully expecting her dragons, but scorpion bolts worked just as well against ships. Her__ fleet was torn to bits, and Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, The Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons drowned in the sea as a mighty storm raged around her._

_They learned the truth of her death through Bran. Many celebrated her death, but Jon wept for her in the privacy of his chambers. It had been such an ignoble death for one so great, and despite what she had become in the end, Daenerys had been his queen, his lover, but most importantly, his aunt. The words of maester Aemon, "A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing." echoed in his head. Jon had always felt alone in his life. Even with the family he'd grown up with, he always felt like there was some half of him missing. He'd always attributed it to him wanting to know the identity of his mother, but perhaps it was the blood of Old Valaryia in his veins crying out for kin. Ever since he had first laid eyes on her, Jon had felt a strange connection to the woman, one he was sure Daenerys had felt as well. It had led to their closeness, their trust, and their eventual passion. Now that she was gone, Jon was the last Targaryen, and he never felt more alone in the world._

_The following decade after her death was one of terror, pain, and borderline madness; a life that left him jaded, callous, and cold. During the war of Ice and Fire, as it became known, Jon witnessed countless atrocities, watched good men and women die from those who still played the game of thrones even while their kingdoms froze or burned, and lost the people he loved, one by one, until all he had left were a dragon and a greenseer in a world where night reigned eternal, the dead roamed the land, and people were burned alive for a fire god's delight. Things like honor and duty did not matter anymore. All that mattered was survival._

_Survival, and revenge-_

More and more memories came and went.

The invasion of the Red Priests, led by Melisandre. The stolen wildfire planted in every major castle. Casterly Rock was the first to go up in green flames, followed by the Eyrie. Euron Greyjoy abandoned Kings Landing and returned to the Iron Islands just before all of King's Landing was set ablaze. Some whispered the Pirate King had set off the casks himself. Then Winterfell was hit, Sansa died, and the Army of the Dead returned with the mother of all winter storms and the Long Night behind them. The North was lost to them there, as were the rest of their friends and allies. Tormund died under a wall of the dead. Arya and Ghost were slain in the godswood. Both held off the Night King so he and Bran could escape with Drogon from the overrun castle before another dragon could be turned into a wight. Jamie had stayed behind as well and helped lead whatever survivors he could to safety. The smallfolk and Lords alike soon took to calling him Ser Goldenhand the Just, after that. No one suffered under his watch and no crime went unpunished. Ser Goldenhand lived up to his newfound reputation by treating alike fairly and equally, because, to the dead? Everyone was meat for their army, highborn and lowborn alike, and working together as one was the only way they would survive another day with the dead at their heels. Ser Jamie Lannister saved hundreds of lives, risked life and limb to save as many as he could. In an odd way, he lived up to the true core morals of a proper southron knight until the end of his days. Chivalry, honor, justice, and protecting the innocent. He finally met his end fighting alongside Jon in a raid on a Red Priests encampment. The fire-worshipping madmen had finally captured Bran and were going to sacrifice him.

Jamie died helping to rescue Bran Stark.

"Jon!"

The voice sounded distant. Was that father? No, his father was not Ned Stark, it was Rhegar Targaryen, and the man was long dead.

"Jon, get up!"

That...that sounded like Robb. Impossible; Robb was dead, too-

"JON!"

The voice hollered in his ear, and Jon flinched. His eyes flew open and he blinked hard. When had he closed them? They refocused on the horrifyingly familiar sight of wights running at them full sprint. Ned Stark stood protecting him, his son, and ward. The mother direwolf was at his side, swinging _Ice _in great arcs that cut down the wights coming for them. Robb and Theon stood back, swinging their own swords with wide and fearful eyes at any and all that got past Lord Stark. Grey Wind stood close to Robb and helped pull any wight that got to close to him away. Ghost stood between Jon and Theon, snapping at anything that got to close. The bodies of over ten wights lay around their feet, some with parts still moving. The bulk of the wights were still tangled up in the mess happening just outside the gates. The king's men were doing well in distracting them by proving a more attractive target; a clump of fast and beating hearts that screamed and cried out in fear as they tried to fight off their own dead, and they were not winning.

A cluster of four spotted them and broke off from horde and were now running at them full sprint.

Instinct kicked in.

_**"KILL THEM ALL!" **_

It was like swimming through that frozen lake again. It damn near hurt to move, fighting against the commands wracking his body. He moved so, so slowly as his fingers closed once more around the frozen hilt of his dropped weapon and he rose to his feet, lurched forward towards his uncle, sword raised, and slashed down.

The wight he attacked was bisected at the waist. Ned glanced at him with wide eyes, flinching. Their gazes locked; tired blue staring into wide grey. Jon's eyes were flickering between colors like a candle in a breeze. Sometimes glowing blue, sometimes dark. Ice chopped down another wight that got too close to Jon as he sluggishly slashed at another. He missed and just wound up punching it. The wight that had once been Miranda flew backwards into a redcloak with a mangled face and knocked over both of them. They got up a second later and came back at the two with a vengeance.

"Jon!" Ned called "What are they?"

"Wights!" Jon slurred. Miranda came at him again and he stabbed her in the stomach. The wight just pushed herself along his frozen blade and stabbed his face with a dagger. When it shattered, Jon twisted his sword and wrenched it sideways. Miranda was split nearly in two and fell apart, but her remains still scrambled towards him. Jon's sword could shatter steel and slice through armor, flesh, and bone like butter, but it did nothing against the wights, unlike Ice, which permanently felled every wight it cut.

"Wights? The Others!" Ned gasped in realization. He stopped when a redcloak wight all but threw himself at him. Ice punched clean through the dead man's breastplate, and the wight slumped against the greatsword, dragging it down with the dead weight. Ned struggled to free his weapon as two more wights came at him. Jon stepped between him and the wights so that their weapons burst apart against his skin. His sword slashed out and one lost his head. The second was knocked to the ground when he slammed his shoulder into it. Ice stabbed into its body and ceased its movements completely. Ned had freed his sword and swung it around to cut down the headless wight.

Ned turned to Jon. "Make them stop!" He panted. Jon, who was panting just as hard, nodded back. He turned to the horde of wights and squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating. A moment later, they flew open in horror.

He had lost control of the wights. The strings that had connected them to him were gone; severed. The newly opened river of power had swallowed them up and swept them into the vast ocean of blue magic.

Magic that could be controlled by only one other being.

"I-I can't!" Jon stuttered, "He's controlling them, now!"

"Who?" Ned demanded.

Jon looked him dead in the eye, and said with fear for all to hear, "The Night King!"

Ned looked between him and the rest of the wights. He thought for a moment, before gripping Jon's shoulder. "How do we stop them?" He demanded "How?"

"Fire and dragonglass." Jon answered instantly. He nodded to Ice_, _"Valaryian Steel, too."

Ned looked at his greatsword, then back to Robb and Theon. Both of them were pale and shaking. A low growl pulled Ned's attention back towards the mother direwolf. The great beast was staring behind them. Smoke was pouring into the air. Some of it came from the direction of the Great Keep, where Ned had instructed the rest of his family to go.

Fear gripped his heart in a vice.

"Robb, did your mother and your siblings get to the Great Keep?" He demanded.

Robb twitched and stared at him, "No," he said and gestured to Theon, "We doubled back before they did!"

"We need to move!" He said. "NOW!"

They ran.

Fires had broken out all over Winterfell. The Barracks, the Guest House, even the small sept Ned built for Catelyn had smoke pouring from the windows and flames licking the wood. The Fiery Hand worked fast and swift while the dead rose and the living died. They killed everyone in their path and called upon their god to fuel the fire so that it might burn the heathen's castle to the ground. R'hllor must have answered. Whatever fires they lit caught and spread with preternatural speed and burned a shade of red. Now, they chased a small pack of wolves, commanded by visions from their god. R'hllor hungered for wolfsblood, and the Fiery Hand would deliver. The direwolves led them straight towards the Great Keep. Clustered around the base of the structure were the rest of the pups, and they were furiously howling and barking up at the keep itself. Ned stopped dead in his tracks when he first saw the fire and smoke billowing out of all possible openings from the keep. Fires raged from of the bottom windows to the lords chambers.

"MOTHER!" Robb screamed when he first beheld the blaze as well. Theon came to a stop next to him with mouth slackened in horror. Jon brought up the rear with his head cradled in his hand. The feeling of invisible fingers made of ice grabbing him and the voice screaming to kill everything that moved intensified. Other magic was churning inside of him like a boiling pot. One wrong move, and everything would be awash in cold and ice and death.

_**"KILL THEM ALL!"**_

Jon twitched violently in Theon's direction with memory and irrational hate and bloodlust screaming at him. The turncloak was right there! Ironborn scum! Traitor! Kill him! Kill him, kill him, _**KILL HIM! **_

_"Ramsay! Sansa!" _Jon thought right back in response. Jon would never forget what Theon had done in the life he'd come from; the marks of his betrayal ran too deep for that. The first week he arrived in the past, he had nearly murdered the squid while he slept, just so he would never betray the Starks, but he remembered what Ramsay did to Theon, and what he did for Sansa was something he could not forget either. It was not his place to forgive everything Theon had done, but what Jon could forgive, he already had a long time ago.

And he needed to remember that before he did something he regretted. So, instead of lashing out, he turned his rage inwards towards what was trying to control him. Other magic spilled over out of his control. With a shout, he threw up his hands, fingers splayed and palms facing the fire, and shoved all the built-up magic outward. Icy wind and frigid magic blanketed the Great Keep and, every flame went out with a whoosh.

Jon slumped back in momentary relief. The oppressive will forcing itself on him briefly abated with that action. Ned, Robb, and Theon, turned to stare at him in utter shock and amazement. As dark grey smoke began to curl from the keep, a chorus of loud whimpers and howls from the pups were heard in place of crackling flames. The she-wolf charged forwards past her pups and began scratching and pawing at the closest entrance. Jon's eyes burned blue as he looked Further through the ancient stonework and into the keep. Ten hearts lay beating inside. Five burned red with R'hllor's fire while the other five burned with fear and panic in a room on one of the upper floors, and the red hearts were bearing down on them. Horror cut him to the quick. Lady Stark, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon; they were all up there!

_**"KILL THEM ALL!"**_

"They're inside!" Jon yelled through a wince.

Ned glanced at him in surprise, but only for a moment. He went to the door the mother-direwolf was pawing at. Oddly enough, he felt no threat from any of the beasts, only a sense of shared urgency. He cast off his musings and made to open the door, but found it barred from the other side. He all but threw himself against it in desperation, Robb joining him a moment later, and the two Starks slammed themselves against the sturdy wood.

"It's barred!" Ned snarled in frustration.

Jon's patience ran out. Wisps of freezing air began curled off his fingertips as he stalked past a scared looking Theon, shoved Lord Stark and Robb out of the way, and slapped both his palms against the door and concentrated. All heat was sucked from the air surrounding Jon. Sheer cold emanated from his body and poured over the door, and a layer of frost spread out from his hands across the wood and froze over the iron studs and hinges. When it was completely frozen from top to bottom, Jon leaned back and kicked it as hard as he could with a yell. There was an audible 'crack' when his boot met wood, and the whole door fell off hinges that had froze through and shattered.

Jon threw the wooden bar used to block the door out of the way and charged inside wire the direwolves poured in behind him. The two Starks and one Greyjoy shared a startled glance before they, too, ran in. The bodies of dead servants and guardsmen littered the floor. Every one of them looked to have been gored with a spear, and some of the wounds looked like they'd been cauterized. Jon recognized the familiar wounds as the work of the Fiery Hand's spears. The military branch of the faith of R'hllor were skilled spearmen and their fire magic was a deadly thing indeed. They were skilled, very skilled, and fanatic enough to do something as mad as attacking a Lord's castle, but there were only five, and he had fought many of them and survived.

He always survived, even when he wished to die.

Four flights of stairs later, Jon found himself staring down a hallway where five men in orange robes were doing their best to break down a door. Ghost and the mother direwolf flanked him, and Jon looked upon the warriors of the Fiery Hand with pure hatred.

_**"KILL THEM ALL!" **_

Jon attacked with all seven direwolves at his heels.

The five priests instantly turned when they heard the snarling direwolves and leveled flaming spears in their direction. Jon drew and threw his sword in one fluid motion. The ice-blade flew end over end and buried deep into one of the warrior's chest, slicing through his thick robes and ringmail underneath. The impact knocked him off his feet and broke through their formation. One them, the tallest of the four, shouted something in Volantine, and they all shuffled back with a synchronicity on par with Unsullied. The same man then began to mutter something under his breath and cast forth his hand just as Jon was upon them.

A gout of flames leaped from his hand and lengthened into a whip of crackling fire that lashed across Jon's raised arms. He winced as the flames made contact and sizzled against his skin. It hurt, but not as much as actual fire would to normal flesh. When the whip came back around, Jon swept his arms to the side with a roar, and the fire-whip fizzled out mid-lash. The direwolves gathered around him; seven snarling maws that filled the air with their collective growls. Jon squatted down and wrenched his sword from the fresh corpse. One of the priests suddenly cocked back his arm and hurled his spear like a great, flaming arrow. Jon swatted it out of the air with his sword and began to advance forward. Another spear was hurled, and Jon caught it. The flames on the head puffed out, and Jon hurled it back just as quick at the thrower. Blood splattered along the keep's floor when the spear punched straight through the man's skull and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Three remained.

When Robb, Theon, and Ned came puffing to the top of the stairs, the priests bolted. The tall one who Jon assumed to be their leader barked an order, and the priests dipped their hands into their robes to pull forth the same vials they used in the courtyard and threw them at their feet. A cloud of grey smoke filled the hall, but Jon's Other eyes saw their beating hearts through the smoke and watched them through the walls as they ran into the closest room, threw open a window, and begin to descend the walls. No surprise there; the Fiery Hand were skilled in more ways than one. Just before he made to pursue, Ned and Robb began calling out Lady Stark's name, and the creak of a door drew his attention behind him.

Catelyn had run into the closest room she could find and locked it behind her. The Great Keep was old and strong, but the pounding at the door was getting louder. She doubted that the lock would hold forever, so she'd thrown her body in front of it. There was nothing in here to barricade the room with, either. Where were the guards? Had they all been killed? Rickon still would not stop crying in Sansa's arms, and neither would her eldest daughter. Bran was white as a ghost, and Arya, her little she-wolf, stood protectively in front of all her siblings with fists clenched and eyes wide. Catelyn had commanded her children to get back against the corner while she pressed her back against the door and prayed to the Old Gods and the New that their fate would not be like Elia Martell and her children; trapped like rats and murdered in a room much like this one. Suddenly, the pounding stopped and Catelyn heard what sounded like a snarling pack of large dogs and cries of pain outside the door. Then, she heard the voices of Ned and Robb, and she opened the door. Her husband, her son, and their ward stood just outside. When Ned saw her, she all but threw herself into his arms.

"Cat!" He cried out and embraced her. Robb's arms snaked their way around her, too. Her children followed her when they heard their father's voice. Soon, all of them were hugging one another.

Theon stood just off to the side, watching them. The Greyjoy's eyes slowly traveled to the other pack of wolves just a yard away. The six wolves were clustered around the tall, dark figure who was staring at the Starks with blue eyes unreadable. Theon had barely recognized him. Even when he was going toe-to-toe with Lord Stark, he did not recognize him. How could he? He looked like a man of forty namedays rather than a boy of four-and-ten. Hells, he didn't even look human. Jon's once inky curls were now whiter than snow and hung past his shoulders in pallid strands. His skin looked almost blue, like he'd been freezing, and was drawn taught over his face with patches of ice and frost consuming his skin. The patches around his scalp were growing outwards into small points. Not to mention his eyes were entirely blue, save his pupils, and shone like stars.

"Jon?" He called softly.

Those eyes snapped to his. Not only his; every one of the wolves looked at him, and Theon froze. One of the smaller wolves, the white one with red eyes, bared its teeth in a silent snarl. Jon seemed to do the same, except his eyes flared even brighter blue. Theon gulped. Suddenly, the bastard of Winterfell visibly grimaced and shut his eyes in a wince. He lurched towards the wall for support and slid down to the floor, panting like he was in great pain. Theon stared, baffled.

"Jon!" Came Brandon's voice.

"Bran, no!" Catelyn cried, but Bran had extracted himself from his mother's grasp and ran towards Jon, but stopped just before the direwolves surrounding the downed form of Jon Snow like they were guarding him. They all seemed to part for him, although one of them with silvery-grey fur and yellow eyes cautiously stepped towards him, nose sniffing Bran's air.

"Bran?"

Bran looked from the direwolves to the form of his half-brother. Jon was slumped against the wall with frost pooling around his body. Bran gasped when his eyes turned to meet his. They were the same kind of blue he saw in his dreams.

"Bran?" Jon called again. His voice sounded so...lost. Tracks of tears were leaking down his face and freezing before they rolled off his cheeks. Just like in his dreams...

"I'm sorry..." Jon all but whimpered.

Bran felt his mother's hands wrap around him and pulled him away. His family were all standing there, now, all of them standing just before the direwolves, and all of them were staring at Jon with various expressions. Father took a great step forward, _Ice, _clutched loosely in his hands. There was something in his eyes that Bran dared to call fear.

"I'm so sorry..." Jon was whispering. His whole body jumped like he wanted to move but stopped himself at the last moment. With a cry, Jon hurled the frozen blade still clutched in his hands away from him where it skittered to a stop a the end of the hall. He slumped against the old stone of the Great Keep and just lay there, heaving for breath.

"Jon?" Called father.

"This is all my fault." Jon rasped. Bran couldn't tell if he was talking to father or himself. The direwolves made room for Lord Eddard Stark when he collapsed by his nephew's side and made to reach out for him.

"Don't!" Jon yelped before his gloves brushed his skin. Ned pulled back like he'd been burned.

"Don't..." Jon repeated much more quietly, "Please, father...I don't want to hurt you."

Arya called Jon's name then. Her voice was trembling and shaking, like she was afraid. That scared Bran more than anything because Arya wasn't afraid of anything. Jon's neck creaked and turned towards her. Arya flinched at the sight of him. Sansa looked like she wanted to faint. Jon looked like he tried to smile at them, but it looked more like a grimace. Mother was clutching a whimpering Rickon and looking like all the horror of the Seven Hells was staring her in the face.

Ned stared into his nephew's blue eyes, and spoke in a tentative voice, "The Others...in the crypts, you mentioned the Others, and those things out there..." He glanced in the direction of the courtyard, "You called them wights. You...you're a..."

"A White-Walker." Jon finished for him quietly.

"Jon...they're legends!" Ned sounded like he was trying to convince Jon otherwise.

"No." Jon panted in a ragged, exhausted voice, "Only asleep...they're...awake, now."

"The deserter from the Night's Watch..." Ned spoke more to himself than anything, "He said...he said-"

"It's true." Jon gasped, "All...true...warn...the Watch..."

Eddard suddenly seemed to realize Jon's state of being and stared at him, hard.

"Jon?"

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but what came out of his throat sounded like ice crackling on a lake. There was a semblance of language in there, but only just.

"STARK!"

All eyes turned towards the hulking figure that stood at the end of the hallway. Robert Baratheon was limping up the stairs. In one hand, he held a bloody sword. The other was pressed firmly against a wound in his side. Mud and filth decorated his leathers and beard. The king's eyes were wide and wild and his teeth bared into a snarl, and when his eyes fell on Ned, they seemed to grow even wider. Spittle flew from his mouth when he yelled, "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, STARK!" He took a plodding step forward and jabbed his sword at Ned, "YOU FUCKING TRAITOR!"

Ned stared at the form of his king with something akin to horror as he stood up. A low growl ripped through air as the mother direwolf took a step forward with her eyes locked on the fat king and her hackles raised. All her pups followed suit.

Robert began limping forward.

"ALL THIS TIME!" He bellowed, "YOU'VE BEEN A FUCKING DRAGON-LOVER AFTER ALL THIS TIME!"

"I PROMISED HER, ROBERT!" Ned shouted right back. He marched in front of his family with Ice gripped tight, "ON HER DEATHBED, I PROMISED HER!" A thought crossed his mind and he all but yelled "How did you-"

"FIND OUT!?" Robert thundered. His hand reached into his tunic and pulled forth a pair of crumpled letters which he threw at the floor, "ASK YOUR WIFE!"

Ned went very, very still.

Even from here, he recognized his wife's handwriting. What was more, he saw the sigil of House Tully stamped upon the other letter. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned to look at Catelyn.

"...Cat?" He asked in a whisper.

Her face was white as a ghost and her eyes were wide and afraid.

"I did what I had to." She croaked in a small voice, "He was a threat to our family...our children!"

"I trusted you." Ned's voice sounded dead to his own ears.

Cat slowly shook her head back and forth, "I'm sorry." She said with tears in her eyes.

Movement pulled Ned's attention over Catelyn's shoulder. Slowly, ever so slowly, Jon was rising to his feet and gripped the wall with a desperate strength to pull himself up. A thin layer of ice outlined his body on the wall behind him and handholds of ice bloomed underneath his fingers to help him rise.

Robert saw this and paused, "YOU!" He roared "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I AM THE _KING!"_

Jon took a shaking step forward.

In contrast, Jon's voice was quiet, no longer speaking in that strange tongue from earlier.

"My name...is Jon Snow." He rasped, "My mother...named me Aegon Targaryen." He met Robert's eyes, blue staring into blue, "Her name...was Lyanna Stark!"

Robert was the one to freeze this time.

"And she..." Jon hissed with a shocking amount of venom, "Never loved you!"

Robert's rage finally boiled over. He screamed so loud it felt like the whole keep was shaking, and he charged with sword swinging wildly above his head, fully intending to cut through the whole Stark family to get to him-

"NO!"

-And shuddered to a stop.

Slowly, Robert looked down to where a length of Valaryian Steel was buried in his gut. His eyes traveled up to stare into the wide Stark grey of Ned Stark. Ned's breath came out in shuddering gasps. He jerked the sword out of his king's gut and took a step back. Robert, on the other hand, stumbled back and stared at where his guts were leaking out of his belly. His eyes traveled up to meet Ned's, and he lurched forward with his sword half-raised and a yell on his lips.

A blur of shaggy fur tackled Robert to the ground. The mother direwolf tore into Robert's throat with reckless abandon. Blood splattered the floor, and Robert's war-cry turned into a gurgle of agony that died a moment later. The direwolf stepped away to reveal Robert's bloody throat. Despite it all, the king was alive. Ned stared down at the form of his best friend, his king, and Robert stared right back.

"K-k..." He gurgled his final words, just before his eyes went blank.

_"Kingslayer!"_

* * *

_**Well, i'm back! did ya miss me? **_

_**DING-DONG THE KING IS DEAD! BET YA DIDN'T SEE THAT ONE COMING MUHAHAHAHA! **_

_**This is all going somewhere, I swear it! This chapter went through 5 different versions in my head, and like all things that are planned out, nothing went according to plan! You guys have no idea how difficult it was to find a good picture of a window in Winterfell castle. Just a regular old window. Seriously, the design of a medieval window in a fictional setting held up half the story.**_

_**The flashback kind of came out of nowhere. As I was looking back through the chapters, I realized I never really had an ending planned out for Dany in Jon's previous life. Yes, I saw the ending of season 8, and this is all I'm gonna say. **_

_**Acting=phenomenal**_

_**Music=phenomenal!**_

_**CGI/Special-Effects=Amazing! **_

_**Ending=...I...It felt like they threw a lot out the window...I just...it was they forgot the previous storyline! I'm not going to complain, and the actors, crew, writers (Even though a lot of blame the writers) deserve major props for the incredible amount of blood, sweat, and tears they put into it. It was not easy for them at all. I just wish it would have been different. Other than that; it was amazing.**_

_**Anyway, Dany ALMOST become Queen of the Ashes in Jon's previous life, but different events and circumstances changed his and Dany's paths in drastic ways. The Night King was not defeated, therefore no one can march south for fear of the dead encroaching upon them. Dany lost EVERYONE that had been with her through her journey to westeros (Jorah, Grey Worm, Missandei, Rheagal) all at once in that battle. All she has left is the Iron Throne. After everything she has lost and gone through, it's the only thing she has, now; all she can focus on. Jon is much the same in this regard, except his obsession is the Night King, and he still has family and friends to keep him grounded. Dany does not, and a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. Still, it does not give her the right to sacrifice others. In the end, she is not the only one who has lost people, and Jon will not let her drag them all down with her. **_

_**I'm really going to be expanding on the Night King's powers and White-Walker abilities in the future. There is going to be a lot that is going to happen. Want a hint? All I can say...is ice.**_

_**Ice everything.**_

_**Ice, ice baby.**_

_**Alright, time to try and answer some reviews and make statements at the same time!**_

_**I'm going to try to upload at least once a month, now. Once a week is no longer going to work.**_

_**Yes, Catelyn is going to get a foot up her ass. I know about Lady Stoneheart. Nuff said.**_

_**More of this Jon's War of Ice and Fire will be shown in the future, and it ain't pretty.**_

_**Winter is still coming.**_

_**R'hllor hasn't forgotten about Jon, either.**_

_**On a more personal note, I quit my job, and am praying the new one is gonna be a good one. I go for a follow-up interview the 19th so wish me luck! Seriously, pray for ya boi if this doesn't work out...now...pardon me while I eat go prep some chicken.**_

_**Valar Dohaeris!**_


	11. Chapter 11

**WARNING; THINGS GET GRAPHIC TOWARDS THE END OF THIS CHAPTER**

* * *

Across the Narrow Sea, a girl dreamed of many things.

_She dreamed of many-legged shapes writhing in mounds of snow._

_Gnashing, blue lips and old hands, wrinkled and gnarled, reached out and grasped for something she could not see._

_An ocean of blood. It roiled and boiled like a great pot of soup. Gouts of yellow fire flashed through the surface of the water. Monstrous things swam about the wreckage of broken ships and feasted upon drowning men as something gigantic and terrible rose from the depths as lightning and thunder boomed and flashed overhead._

_Green hands caressed a beautiful, golden rose that grew stronger and larger than everything else in the garden until it towered into the sky with its thorns growing as long and sharp as swords._

_She saw a large man holding a door shut with great strength as something slammed against the other side._

_People with the lower half of fishes dragged a thrashing kraken down into the depths._

_A winged wolf and a raven with three eyes stood over a white wolf covered in ice that lay before a white tree with a face carved onto it. Red sap leaked from the eyes like tears and dripped onto the frozen fur of the white wolf and it howled and thrashed on the ground with its eyes closed like it was caught in the grip of a nightmare. A great shape with eyes of the purest blue rose from a pool of water beside them in response to the wolf's cries, and the world was blanketed in white snow._

_Finally, there was the last dream. Two white shadows with glowing blue eyes were locked in a tug of war over a crown of pure ice with spikes that were sharp icicles._

Violet eyes flew opened as she awoke, gasping for breath once more.

* * *

The storm had come out of nowhere. One minute, the sky was clear, the seas were calm, and the Silence was gliding swiftly over the waves. Then the wind changed, the sky blackened, the seas grew rough, and his ship was caught in a tempest squall unlike anything he'd seen before.

His mutes had rowed on through the storm like they had countless times before, but something was different. Even Euron felt it. It made his crew of stoic, subservient mutes damn near nervous. Usually, he'd killed or maimed any who showed such weakness, but he felt the charge in the air. The seas were too rough; splashing over the prow of his ship and smacking against his hull like the waters wished to capsize the Silence. The thunder was too loud, the lightning too frequent. Angry forks of it curled across the dark clouds and bolts of it struck off in the horizon. Then came the stench; a rotted, putrid, foul-smelling stink like the corpse of a whale had been dragged up from the bottom of the ocean; the smell of death and brine. Euron had smelled worse but he still wrinkled his nose and fought the urge to cough as the smell clung to his tongue. Euron was confused above all else. Clean air, rain, and sea salt one minute, the next was like they had sailed right into a wall of stink. Where in all the hells was that gods-awful smell coming from? Was there actually the body of some dead sea-beast floating close-by?

Then, he saw it

A bolt of lightning flashed on the horizon, and from his place on the bow of the Silence, overlooking the sea, Euron saw the unmistakable outline of an Ironborn longship. She was large and long; much bigger than the usual build. Ripped and tattered sails billowed in the wind as she cut across the angry sea. Euron could tell that it was a fine vessel despite what he saw of the state she was in from that brief look, and he would have considered taking it if not for one thing. Something about the sight of that ship made all the hairs on his body stand up. Unease wracked his system, and Euron stared at where the lightning had illuminated the distant ship as he began to question why? He'd sailed into the Smoking Sea, scoured the ruins of Old Valaryia! Why was he feeling off at the sight of a damn ship?

Thunder and lightning exploded in the sky, and Euron saw that the far-off ship was now sailing straight at them and was much, much closer than it had any right to be. He saw that the sails were all black with what looked to be a gray kraken stitched into them. The hull was a dull white, almost gray, and his keen eye picked out the figurehead of what might have been a dragon. Just as he was about to order his men to react, lightning flashed again, and the ship was gone.

He blinked.

What?

The ship had vanished. Nothing but dark, choppy sea and rain were all he could see. He scanned the water for any sign of it, but there was nothing! Had it sunk? Was it a ghost ship of some kind? Wouldn't be the first time he saw one. Though the ship was gone, Euron still felt anxious. He knew something was wrong, that this storm had just become the least of his problems. Euron idly glanced back to see the state of his crew...and froze.

One of his oarsmen was missing.

Where a rower had once been was an empty seat. It was on the portside, his blind spot, so he could not see what happened out of the corner of his covered eye. He knew the man had not gone overboard, his crew has too good for that. What was more, none of them seemed to have noticed. They just kept rowing on through the wind, rain, and waves. His eyes scanned the seas. All of his instincts screamed that he was in danger. Movement pulled his focus towards the back row, starboard side this time, to lock gazes with the wide and terrified eyes of one of his crew as he disappeared overboard.

No, not disappeared…

He had been pulled; pulled by a massive, scaly arm with webbed hands big as a man's head.

Just as his crew noticed their captain's distress and just before Euron could shout orders, there came an explosion of seawater and something heavy landed on the deck hard. It had a body like that of a man, but the rest of it was a nightmarish mix of a frog and a fish. The creature stood tall on two legs and was covered in fishy scales a grayish-green with a pale belly. It's hands and feet were webbed like a frog, except each digit was capped by sharp nails. Needle teeth set in a wide mouth with fins in place of ears and a long, spiny dorsal fin running down its back, slits for nostrils, bulging, orange eyes that never so much as blinked, and a pair of puffy, red gills on each side of its neck pumped angrily as it hopped across the deck, snatched up another of his oarsmen, and dove overboard into the waves.

There was a moment of utter stillness.

Just as his crew began to panic and just before Euron could react, the ocean erupted on all sides. Over a dozen of the fish-men landed on the Silence; grabbing his crew and pulling them overboard, pouncing and tearing them with sharp nails and needle teeth, and hurling them bodily into the sea with strength alone. Seawater splashed against his back and Euron dove out of the way as another landed where he had stood. His hand went for his belt and he pulled forth a Valaryian Steel knife. As soon as the blade cleared its scabbard, he spun and swung on instinct as he felt the weight of something scaly and slimy loom over him. The knife juddered to a stop in the fish-man's belly. Dark blood spurted from the wound and Euron twisted it with a snarl and wrenched it upwards. The Valaryian Steel sliced through the scales and muscle, and Euron practically gutted the fish-man. The creature let out a pathetic croak of agony and collapsed to the deck in a puddle of foul-smelling blood and guts.

The creatures were all over the deck. Most of his crew had either been mauled or drowned. Some had taken a few of the fish-things with them, but for every monster slain, another took its place just as quick. They seemed solely intent on killing everyone aboard the ship, and were doing it well, for it seemed he was the only one left on deck. Euron spun and dodged the swipe of another webbed paw before lashing out with his dagger to take one of the creature's bulging eyes in a shower of blood. The thing groaned in pain, and Euron backed away towards the bow of the Silence as the remaining creatures all began to lumber towards him. Euron screamed at them; screamed at these things that had no right to exist on his ship or threaten his life. He would not die; he would kill every one of these things with his bare hands if he had to! His blue-stained lips twisted into a cruel sneer as Euron began to call forth the magic he'd learned from the wizards he'd tortured. Then, the Silence was thrown to one side as something large exploded from the ocean's surface like a breaching whale right alongside his ship and slammed against it. Euron was thrown off his feet and rolled across the deck. His knife skittered away, and he bounced to a stop when his ship finally began to right herself.

Suddenly, he was seized by slimy, webbed fingers that grabbed his arms, legs, hair, and shoulders. Euron thrashed and struggled, screamed and raged, and fought against his captors until one struck him across the face. His head rocked from the blow and his jaw stung. Then the creatures began to beat him; slaps, kicks, teeth, nails; they beat and beat at Euron's whole body until his struggles lessened, and then they forced him up onto his knees and held him there. Every time he so much as twitched the beatings resumed. Euron spat out blood and snarled at the horrible creatures. He could not focus enough to use his magic. The Silence rocked back and forth in the storm while rain lashed his face, soaked his battered body, and stung his many open wounds. The stink of low-tide and deep ocean filled his nostrils and made him gag. All he felt was hatred; burning, burning hatred!

Then there came the sound of boots thumping across the deck. Yellow light washed over the rain-soaked planks and Euron twisted his head as much as he dared towards the sound, and balked as he saw the longship that had been bearing down on him not but a few minutes ago was now directly rubbing up against the Silence. Had that been what nearly tipped his boat? Impossible! Suddenly, a figure loomed over him; a huge man wrapped in a grey cloak. Everything about this man was grey; grey clothes, gray hair, gray beard, gray skin, even! An axe of what looked like bone peeked out over the gray man's massive shoulders, and the crown of sharp teeth around his skull was also noticed, but it was the torch he held in his left hand that had Euron's attention. It was a length of scorched weirwood, except the fire burning at the end was smokeless, soundless, and yellow like the kraken of House Greyjoy. Even though he was close to the fire, he felt no heat from the torch. The torch swept aside, and Euron found himself face to face with its wielder. There was a certain timelessness about him. Euron knew he was old with all the wrinkles, but there was no sign of age in those gray orbs. No, only madness. Deep and terrible madness. They were wide open, unblinking, and stared into Euron's smiling eye with unnatural focus; his expression unreadable. Euron felt like his very soul was bared before this man, and Euron hated it; hated feeling this wretched helplessness! He was usually the one in control, and he hated the reversal!

The gray man's eyes flickered to his eyepatch and the wrinkles lining his face shifted into a frown. Quick as a flash, a gray hand shot out and tore it off his face to reveal the black eye underneath to the world. Euron snarled and spat a wad of spit and blood at the gray man. It landed in his beard, and the whole world seemed to go still. The gray man said not a word. Instead, he stared at him, silent as a grave.

Without warning, the torch came up and pressed directly against his blue, smiling eye.

A howl ripped from his throat as he felt his flesh bubble, his eye go dark, and agony rock his frame. A powerful hand was holding his head still so that he couldn't move against the fire burning his face. Then the torch was pulled away, and still Euron screamed in pain and hatred and fury at everything around him. More pain came when strong fingers dug into his scorched socket and ripped free the charred mess of his smiling eye. Euron fought against the creatures holding him, the pain, his helplessness, and continued to scream and roar in defiance of it all. With his remaining eye, Euron watched the gray man raise the remnants of his smiling eye above his head and drop it into his open mouth. Euron saw a row of triangular teeth like a shark lining his gums before he closed his mouth and swallowed. A moment passed where nothing happened, then the man spat out something that squirmed and wriggled into his cupped palm. Then he brought it towards Euron's face, and Euron blanched when he saw what it was, even through his agony.

It was an eye.

An eye that was jet black save for a glowing red iris. Attached to the end were writhing strands of either roots or tentacles, he did not know or care. All he knew was that the gray man was bringing it towards his face, and no-no-NO!

The roots burrowed into his empty socket, into his brain, his head! Euron thrashed as pain unlike anything he could ever imagine wiped out all other feeling. Somehow, he had not collapsed from the sheer agony-

All at once, the pain stopped.

Euphoria unlike anything he could ever imagine wiped out all other feeling. His body stilled as he became awash in pure bliss. Euron was released and he fell bodily to the deck with a dull thud.

A voice that reverberated through his very soul echoed in his ears.

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"

And Euron understood.

Then he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed and laughed until his throat was raw. Then, he kept laughing, all the while staring at the Gray King with his new glowing red eye.

* * *

**Figured I'd throw out something different. There's much more going on besides the frozen fuckery happening in Winterfell and I've had this particular idea FOREVER and am so glad finally to put it out here!**

**Thank you for everyone who reviewed followed and favorited, and for those that didn't like what happened in the flashback with what I did to Dany, I understand, and I would like to take a moment to explain.**

**First off, all of that was intentional and purposefully written. I cringed myself writing that death scene, but again, purposeful. Let me try to put a few things in perspective. This is an AU story, different events take place, and different events occur, such as military tactics. In my story Melisandre was not present for the Battle of Winterfell, therefore, the Dothraki did not face down and the wights with flaming arahks (In the show, I feel like they took down the bulk of the Night King's forces before they were over run so go Dothraki!) and that one change is a factor towards what happens. I'm going to show more of what happened during the first battle of Winterfell, but what I'm getting at is that Dany lost the majority of her forces, Rhegal, all of those close to her in one night, and she couldn't even avenge them because the Night King retreated with nearly all of his generals dead and his army a LOT smaller. What pushes her over the edge, is what Sansa does, which will be shown.**

**The War of Ice and Fire that Jon came from was a war that was based on bad decisions. Was the North ungrateful to her? Yes. Because they were all afraid of her and frankly didn't want her there. Was Jon ungrateful? Yes. He's also obsessed with the defeat of the Night King once and for all. He wants it as badly as she wants the throne. Would Daenerys Targaryen die for her people? Yes. Would she die for the northmen, who Jon claims as his people? No. She might them as her subjects because she's going to rule Westeros, but right now they are a foreign people of a foreign land that never wanted her here from the starts. So, she figures "fuck this and fuck them" Now, Would the Queen of the Ashes, someone created through the loss of so many of her close friends and people she trusted, on top of everything else die for people she feels has betrayed her? I don't think anyone would. Now, I know for a fact Dany is not evil, but she has her moments. She can be cruel, stubborn with an indomitable will, and when she sets her mind to something she cannot be stopped.**

**Again, want to point out AU story so keep an open mind and examine various possibilities.**

**Don't know if that clears anything up for anybody. I'm not going to explain every single reason for what I did because that will spoil plot points and take up 5 pages, but I just wanted to lay out some reasoning. I also want to say that I will write this story however I please and written for my enjoyment. I keep posting this for those who like it and want to read more. Don't like, don't read; that's fine with me. Thanks for giving it a chance.**

**Hope you guys like this chapter and let me know what you think. Feedback keeps me going. I want to hear what you have to say; suggestions, constructive criticism, and just plain Moar plz makes my day. Also, thank you anmsff for pointing out my mistake with Tormund. That's I get for merging 2 rough drafts.**

**See you next time!**


	12. Chapter 12

He was falling.

_**Cold.**_

_**Ice. Frost. Snow.**_

_**Crystallizing. Preserving. Entombing.**_

_**Forever cold.**_

_**It was perfection. **_

_**It was their purpose. **_

_**Ice and cold wiping out the destructive burning heat that inhabited the world. **_

_**With each flame snuffed, cold could rise in place. **_

_**The storm will rage, the snow will fall, and warmth will freeze over and become eternal. **_

_**It was perfection. **_

_**It was their purpose. **_

_**Cold.**_

_**Ice. Frost. Snow.**_

_**Crystallizing. Preserving. Entombing.**_

_**Forever cold.**_

On and on the mantra went, dragging Jon down into a never-ending vortex of cold and death. As he fell, he felt sheer cold explode inside his heart. The shard of Ice, the piece connecting him to the Others, the last remnant of the Night King, _his _Night King, burned like a frozen star beneath his skin. It whispered to him; whispered words of memory and magic, ice and darkness, hatred and time. More memories were pulled forth from his mind as he fell through the endless void, memories that were examined by a pair of blue eyes that saw all.

_-Northmen, Free-Folk, Vale Knights, Dothraki, and Unsullied armed with dragonglass weapons charged into the Army of the dead with Jon leading them. Obsidian arrows rained from above while catapults sent balls of fire into the Enemy while Drogon swooped low overhead to scorch a line of flaming death deep within the horde, and Jon's heart swelled at the sight. Bran had been spying on the Army of the Dead's movements while they were preparing, and just before they came within Winterfell's borders, he struck. As Rhegal, Bran flew behind enemy lines in a daring move to score a devastating blow against the Night King's generals. The dragonfire obliterated the White Walkers and the effect had been detrimental to the Others. Bran estimated that half their army had fallen and the Night King had been too distracted fighting off another dragon to raise anyone else. _

_They could win! Gods above, they could win this! _

_Jon screamed in a mix of anger and elation as they crashed into the Army of the Dead and he cut down his first wight-_

_**"JOIN YOUR SONG WITH MINE!"**_

The command was an avalanche smashing into Jon's will. It slipped into his ears, his mind, his heart, his very _**soul- **_

_"NO!" _He screamed back in defiance.

Further and further he fell until the blackness turned to icy wind, and Jon suddenly slammed face first into snow. Groaning, he pushed himself up onto his feet and beheld that he was surrounded by nothing but a frozen tundra. A mountain loomed in the distance; a mountain shaped like an arrowhead, and Jon instantly knew where he was at the sight of it. He had been here once before, fighting upon a frozen lake with six brave souls against the Army of the Dead.

He was Beyond the Wall.

Jon slowly turned in place, and gasped.

The Wall lay right behind him, and the massive gap where Viserion's fire rent a hole in the structure was also present.

For a moment, a horrible thought entered his head. Had he gone back in time? Had he died and had been transported back to his future? No, he thought a moment later as the realization that the Wall and the Land of Always Winter were MUCH closer together here.

The question of where exactly _here _was grew in his mind like one of Garth Greenhand's seeds; quickly and violently.

What was more, was that he could actually feel _the _cold. Frigid winds sliced through his flimsy black cloak and froze his flesh, and each breath stung his lungs with the harshness of winter itself. He hadn't felt this cold in...a long time. The last time he felt this cold was...

_-His knees in the snow, hope draining out of him like a leaking wound, the Night King's fingers gripping his temple and whispering into his ear, "The pack survives"-_

_**"What is this?!"**_

Jon screamed and fell back into the snow. His hands flew to his head and he cried out in agony. Behind him, massive cracks appeared along the Wall. Great chunks of ice fell from it in sheets as Jon cried out against the pain threatening to tear him apart. The voice of the Night King came again, louder this time, and with fury evident in the tone.

_**"WHAT IS THIS!"**_

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Through watering eyes, Jon looked up to see a roiling blizzard coming towards him; a mass of grey and white that brought forth whipping winds and flecks of ice. Jon could see figures moving within the storm. There were thousands of them; all shambling shadows with pale blue eyes. The words boomed inside his skull once more, but now it was like a thousand different people yelling in the same tone of voice.

_**"DEFILER! USURPER! YOU DARE!"**_

More of the Wall crumbled behind him, and Jon cried out in pain.

"I warned you." This time, the voice came from in front of him. He slowly looked up and saw Bloodraven standing there, his black cloak whipping in the wind, and he was glaring down at Jon with an expression of bitter loathing. He spat, "I warned you, Jon Targaryen! I warned you against the power you toy with! No man was meant to wield it! Now, because of your lust for vengeance, the Others have a foothold beyond the Wall; you!" Brynden River's eye narrowed, "You are a fool! A bloodthirsty, vengeful fool!"

And Jon began to laugh. It was a twisted, bitter sound that cracked like ice, but he laughed, and laughed, and laughed until his throat began to hurt. How could he not? It was so funny! Bloodraven was right. A second chance wasted because he wanted revenge on damn near all of Westeros! Ever since he had returned to the past, all he could ever think about was revenge. Not setting the world right, not stopping the catastrophic events that led to the war of Ice and Fire, not even warning those involved. No, all he wanted was to kill. Ramsay, Cersei, Joffrey, Baelish, the Night King; he wanted to kill them all. Wanted to make them suffer as he had suffered. For once, Jon realized, his bloodlust had not come from the nature of the Others, but from himself. Somewhere along the way, he had become twisted, corrupted, and changed for the worst. In his quest to defeat the Night King, Jon killed the man he was, and let a monster be born in his place. Just when had he fallen so far? At what point in time had he become a shadow of his former self?

Had it been when he returned to Winterfell with Daenerys and Bran greeted him in front of all the north as Aegon?

Or when he watched Rhegal and Viserion, locked in mortal combat, crash down upon the First Keep, crushing it and all the people hidden there? Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, and everyone else inside all flattened under over a hundred tons of ancient stone and dragon flesh?

Was it when he watched the Night King retreat? When he realized the Enemy was smarter than expected and would play a long game that could outlast them all? That Jon would not be able to take the Night King's life, when he felt that out of everyone in Westeros, he had the right to take it.

Or had it been when Sansa was discovered sending ravens to all corners of the Realm proclaiming Jon's heritage and Daenerys ordering her execution? Perhaps that had been it, when Jon was forced to choose between his queen and his family.

Jon realized this was what Theon must have felt when he had to make his impossible choice, and like Theon, Jon's choice would bring chaos and pain; Stark or Targaryen. Unlike Theon, he chose the family he had known all his life, and cast out his aunt. Cast her out into a tempest squall that swallowed her life.

And now? He had ruined his chance to make things right. He had failed _again_. What now, Ser Davos? What words of wisdom could the Onion Knight offer someone who had travelled through time to right all the wrongs in the world and fucked it up even worse?

"You're right." Jon's voice croaked, "Is that what you want to hear? You're _right! _I am a bloodthirsty fool! I failed my family, I failed Westeros, I failed to change the past and damned the future!_" _He laughed once more, directly into Bloodraven's face, and said, "And do you know the worst part? I'd do it all over again just to have my revenge! That's all I have left, Bloodraven! REVENGE!"

"And see where it has brought you." Bloodraven sneered at him.

Jon shivered as another wave of cold washed over him and made his teeth chatter, "Where the hell are we?" He spat.

"Your mind." Bloodraven spat right back, "A bleak and tortured place, I must say. It is a mind under siege."

Jon looked over his shoulder to where the blizzard was rolling towards him.

"Yes, the Others. I am surprised you have held out this long. Your will is commendable, if anything. He is coming for you."

A garbled roar filled the air, and the sound made every hair on Jon's body stand on end. A winged shadow moved within the snowstorm, spewing blue fire.

"He has been feeding off your memories!" Bloodraven hissed, "Examining, calculating, planning! He knows all that you know, now!"

Scales once white and gold, now dull gray with the pallor of death, burst free from the confines of the blizzard. Viserion, with half his jaw missing and puffs of blue fire flaring from the hole in his neck, flew forth on tattered wings. The dragon-wight unleashed another discordant roar and swept low over the tundra as thousands of figures disgorged from the raging blizzard; the Army of the Dead in full force. Jon saw Giants, animals, Free Folk, Night's Watch, Northmen, Dothraki, Unsullied, Vale Knights, Crannogmen, and all matter of the Realms of Men. All with blue eyes running straight for him. White Walkers were mixed in among the wights here and there, riding undead horses and wielding weapons of ice.

Atop Viserion's back sat a figure garbed in black armor and eyes like blue stars; the Night King.

Jon shakily stood to his feet. The cold intensified and slashed him like a sword, but he rose. Hatred burned in his heart at the sight of his nemesis and gave him the strength he needed. He would not stand idle while the Enemy, _his Enemy_, was staring him in the face.

Bloodraven's voice grated his ears as he stood, "You still fight? I am not sure if you are brave or mad. Perhaps both...you cannot win against him." Jon ignored him and stepped forward. A mind under siege was what Bloodraven had said. _His _mind, and Jon would defend it.

The Three-Eyed-Raven snarled.

"If you fall, the Enemy will have complete control of you! Jon Snow will cease to exist! It will be a fate worse than death! Ask yourself this if you will not listen to me; you proclaim revenge is all you have left. Does your bloodlust outweigh the lives of your family?" Jon stopped in his tracks and looked at Bloodraven over his shoulder. Brynden Rivers said, "In the waking world, all of House Stark stands before your body. If you lose here, you will wake not as Jon Snow, but as an extension of the Others, and you will kill them all. I ask you again; your family or your revenge? What matters more?"

Jon faltered. The Army of the Dead was eating up the distance between them at a rapid pace with the Night King leading the charge. Another minute and they would be upon them.

"I can help you, Jon Snow." Brynden stretched out a wrinkled and calloused hand for him to take, "I can save you from yourself. _Please," _Brynden stressed the word, "Do not make the same mistakes again! Do not let your hatred use you!"

_"Not again." _Jon thought. Then, in a small, tired voice, he asked, "What must I do?"

"Take my hand." Was his answer.

Viserion's shadow swept over them with the distinct rumble of incoming dragonfire filling the air, and Jon grasped the Three-Eyed-Raven's hand.

_Darkness._

* * *

The word rattled around inside Ned's head over and over in Robert's voice.

_"Kingslayer!"_

The dead king's eyes seemed to mock him. They no longer saw, but the cloudy orbs seemed to stare at him with accusation. Ned let out a great shuddering breath and stepped back from the cooling corpse of his friend. Ice felt beyond heavy in his hands, so he let it fall with a clatter. The sound made everyone jerk and look towards him. Horror and self-disgust gripped him in a vice as he looked between the body of his king and the blood staining his sword. His knees gave out and he scrambled for support as he fell to the floor. Idly, he felt Catelyn's hands wrapping around him, but they brought no sense of comfort. By the gods, what had he done?!

_"Kingslayer!"_

His eyes landed on the pair of crumpled letters Robert had dropped. When he saw them, he began to rise, but his wife's arms tightened to hold him back. Catelyn called his name and tried to pull him back, but Ned tore out of her grasp and stumbled forward, carefully avoiding Robert's body, to pick up the letters. Hands shaking, he unfolded them both and began to read against Catelyn's protests.

"Ned, I only-!"

He quelled her with a glance. A sudden fury choked him; a toxic brew that tasted of betrayal, grief, and anger. Catelyn went still when they locked eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"_Kingslayer!"_

"Father!"

Ned blinked. His focus switched to where Bran knelt at Jon's side. His nephew had collapsed to the floor flat on his back in a crumbled heap. Sluggishly, Ned walked past his silent wife, his wide-eyed ward, and the rest of his frightened children towards his nephew. Sansa was alternating between looking from the corpse of the King, to him, then to Jon with frightened eyes while she held a mewling Rickon. Arya was looking scared for the first time he could remember. Robb was white-faced and shaking, but he fell in step beside his father as he arrived at Bran's side. His fifth child was kneeling by Jon's head with wide eyes and an utterly helpless expression. Ned wanted to reach out for them all, pull them to his chest, and tell them that everything would be alright, but the impossible sight of what had become of his nephew had his utmost attention.

The direwolves were clustered around the form of an emaciated man. Jon's pale blue skin was wrapped so tightly around his bones that he looked mummified, his hands and fingers were practically skeletal and he looked thinner; smaller, even. As he approached, Ned felt the drop in temperature and saw thick patches of pale ice forming around Jon in clumps, but those horrible blue eyes that glowed like torches were closed, and Jon's chest did not move. Ned dropped to a knee besides Lyanna's boy.

"Jon?" He called, his breath coming out in steam.

The boy did not answer.

One of the wolves, the white one with red eyes, sniffed at Jon's hair and let out a mournful whine. Fear gripped Ned's chest in a vice and he tore off one of his gloves to press a finger against Jon's neck to feel for the beat of his heart. Jon was like touching winter ice, so cold that it burned his finger and made his skin stick to Jon's, but Ned felt no pulse.

"Jon!?" He all but yelled. He grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him up. There was practically no weight to him. Jon was light, very, very light, like the weight of a child. His head lolled back with his mouth slightly parted, but made no move that he was awake or alive.

"Father?" Came Bran's voice. The Warden of the North looked towards the dismayed expression of his fifthborn. Bran looked back and forth between Jon and him, and asked in a shaking voice, "Is he...he's..." Ned's eyes must of shown something, because Bran's face twisted in anguished horror.

All at once, the direwolves let out a long, mournful howl.

* * *

Many things could happen to one inside a brothel, apart from having a tumble in the sheets with a comely whore or two. Or five in Tyrion's case. There was always the danger of flea-infested sheets, catching a case of the pox from an unclean girl, even jealous patrons who had taken a fancy to your girl of the evening and try to start a fight. Or, (again, in Tyrion's case) your cock was so good that the lovely ladies of such an establishment beg against your departure and pull you back into the sheets.

A bloodbath was not usually a regular occurrence.

The screams had come out of nowhere. Shouts of terror and screams of pain were heard over the usual sounds you heard in a brothel, coming from Winterfell. The cantering of hooves galloped through Wintertown towards the castle, and the screams redoubled soon after. Men were running and yelling, women were screaming and shouting, and it seemed like all the Seven Hells had broken loose. By the time he pulled on all of his clothes and went outside to see what had happened, whatever was going on had escalated tenfold. It seemed the whole town was out in force to see what was happening. Everyone seemed to be staring in the direction of the castle and Stark guardsmen were running all over the place, demanding everyone get back inside. Screams and sounds of fighting could still be heard from within the ancient castle.

Curse his height! He couldn't see a damn thing through all these people! Just as Tyrion was about to call for one of his personal guards, a voice called from behind him, "Can you feel it, child of the Rock?"

Tyrion turned and stared at the hulking figure garbed in green that was leaning against the brothel. His vivid green eyes looked towards Winterfell with a curious gleam and a smile twitching his beard.

"Pardon?" Tyrion demanded, a little put-off by the odd address.

"The winds of change!" The man said and motioned with one of his hands. A hand which was _green. _Tyrion stepped back. Was this man afflicted by some disease? Oh, gods, was this some northern pox?

Abruptly, there came a great clamor from the front of the crowd that was followed by shouts of surprise. The people began to scream and part, and the man's green hand shot out and grabbed Tyrion's shoulder to pull him away just as a group of the King's men galloped past at a frenzied pace. Some of them were covered in blood and looked utterly terrified of what was behind them...which was something else entirely. A swarm of people dashed past Tyrion. Some were redcloaks, some were Stark men, some were smallfolk, but all of them were covered in blood and sporting open wounds, and all of them had blue eyes. They chased after the fleeing men with the ferocity of rabid dogs.

What in the Seven Hells?

"The winds of change, Lord Lannister. They are here."

The voice was whispered in his ear and he spun to see the green man, but he was gone, and Tyrion saw what looked like a smattering of seeds on the ground where he once stood.

* * *

Cersei looked up as the cantering of horses thundered through the camp and a scowl passed over her face. Finally, whatever nonsense happening down in that frozen waste of a castle was over and they could get moving! She'd have to ask Jamie what the Seven Hells had been going on because nobody seemed to be able to tell her anything! Useless, all of them! Maybe her fat drunk of a husband had finally fallen off his horse and broke his neck after all the hard riding he'd been doing. Wishful thinking on her part, but a Queen could dream.

Then the screaming started.

"RUN!"

"THEY'RE COMING!"

Horses galloped past the wheelhouse as shouts for everyone to flee echoed through the air. Herself, Tommen, and Myrcella jumped as the door was flung open and a bloody Boris Blunt stared inside with terrified eyes.

"My Queen, we must flee! The Starks have betrayed us! Sorcery, my Queen! It is sorcery!" He stammered

What madness was this?

"Ser Boris, what's happening?" She demanded. Where's my brother? My husband?"

"There's no time to explain, my Queen! You-"

Ser Borris was cut off as a body slammed into him.

Cersei and her children screamed as the kingsguard went down and the person on top of him began tearing into his face with their hands and teeth alone. Borris' cries filled her ears and she sat there in shocked silence. That is, until an armored boot kicked Borris' assailant off of him.

The Hound's massive frame blocked most of the door, but Cersei could still see the attacker. It was a woman dressed in bloody skirts with blood staining her face from where the Hound crushed her nose. Her eerie blue eyes were wide and arrow poked out of her neck. The rabid woman hissed at the Hound and lunged once more. Clegane's sword cleared it's scabbard and he ran the woman through, but to both their astonishment and horror, she dragged herself along the length of his sword, trailing blood and guts behind her. Sandor snarled, and with a twist of his sword, he bisected her at the waist. The halves fell apart in a shower of gore and hit the grass with a wet splat. Then, they began to move. The woman looked up at Sandor with a horrible gurgle spewing forth from her lips and her arms reached out to him despite the fact that she should be dead!

It was at that moment, Cersei realized that there were more people attacking the royal party. What had to be a dozen people, and even a few horses, were attacking everyone in sight. Some wielded weapons while others just threw themselves onto the spears of the defenders with hands grasping to clutch and kill while others crawled or limped about on broken or missing limbs.

"Fuck this!" She heard the Hound spit. He all but slammed the door shut. A second later, he opened it to shove a pale-faced Joffery inside to sit beside his equally scared siblings and slammed it shut again.

"GO!" Sandor screamed at the drivers and ran back to his own horse. They were getting the bloody fuck out of here!

* * *

On one of the moors overlooking Winterfell, green eyes watched the madness unfold.

"I told you Night's Prince…" Garth Greenhand spoke into the wind. Green hands stretched forward in a grand gesture,l and all at once, dozens of trees began to sprout forth from the ground around the length of Winterfell and Wintertown. They grew from mere saplings to fully grown trees in just a few minutes until the castle and town alike was encircled by a small forest.

"You still owe me a story."

* * *

_**(Crashes through the front door) At last! After 10000 years I'm free! It's time to explain myself! **_

_**So, I am so sorry for the long wait. I know I said I'd like to update this once a month, but with everything that happened with getting a job and life itself, as well as a inspiration and writer's block writing this chapter, it wasn't looking so good there. I finally got a job that pays well, but I've been working 7/10s and finally got enough of a fire under my ass to finish this. originally was going to be longer but I just couldn't do it it would have taken way too long to write and it's going to flow better this way. so I'm just going to upload this and go back to it later to re-edit and cringe **_**_at any mistakes. again I'm sorry for the long wait everybody But I'm glad I can get this chapter out for you guys. I look at how many people are following and favoriting and reviewing and Id hate to disappoint. For those of you liking this hairbrained story, thank you!_**

_**THE GOD OF TITS AND WINE IS UPON US! PRAISE BE!**_


	13. Chapter 13

The darkness swallowed him whole, and Jon found himself falling once more. Although, this time it felt like he was sinking rather than falling. A sensation of weightlessness cradled him as he fell deeper and deeper into the black. Everything felt thick and heavy like he was falling through syrup. As he descended, all his panic and fear, all his hatred and rage, and all his grief and sorrow seemed to just fade away. The overwhelming sense of failure consuming him dimmed and vanished into the dark. Emotions faded, strength left his body, and his eyes felt so heavy…so heavy…

"_Sleep, Night Prince." _Bloodraven's voice whispered softly in his ears, _"Sleep and be forgotten by the world."_

Jon let his eyes close as he welcomed the encompassing shadows and allowed himself to drown in them.

**XXXX**

Back in the world of the waking, Jamie Lannister climbed to his feet. He'd come to lying face down on the ground, freezing his balls off, covered in a light dusting of fallen snow, and he had a splitting headache and struggling to recall how he'd gotten there. He remembered dead men rising, glowing blue eyes glaring down at him, and Ned Stark of all people coming to his rescue. When he had tried to get up, someone had trampled him underfoot and a boot connected with his temple, knocking him out cold.

Now that he was back on his feet, he looked around with utter bewilderment. Winterfell looked like it had undergone a siege. Bodies lay everywhere, screaming people ran in every which way, sections of the castle smoked and burned, and everything was overall just drenched in chaos. Jamie took a step forward and paused as an ache shot through his chest. He looked down and saw that his breastplate was dented and cracked right above his heart like he'd been struck with a war hammer. That had been where the man? Demon? Whatever he was, had hit him. Gently, Jamie pressed his fingers to the damage and flinched when a few frost-slick slivers crumbled away under his touch.

Suddenly, Jamie's eyes began to prickle something fierce and he blinked away the near pain. When he opened them, billowing red caught the corner of his eye and he turned his head to see a trio of red and orange clad men drop to the ground from the one of the windows of Winterfell's Great Keep and began marching across the courtyard with inexorable purpose; each step hard and sure, spears braced against their shoulders, and striding across the pathway. Those that they passed, servants, guards, and nobles all seemed to disregard their bright colors and dark skin of Essos that looked as out of place in the drear of the North as a fox in a chicken coop. No one paid attention to them; their eyes sliding off the trio like a foot on wet ice.

No one saw them for what they truly were, but Jamie did.

He watched with a mounting sense of unease as the masses parted around the three men, who walked straight past a group of guards running by them and through an entryway that led into the courtyard. For some reason, his mind flashed back all those years ago to the moment when Aerys ordered Rossart to ignite the caches. That same sick sense of impending dread he'd experienced watching the pyromancer walk from the throne room to do the Mad King's bidding filled his gut when the strange trio walked away, and his hand twitched for want of a sword.

**XXXX**

The godswood of Winterfell was three acres of wild forest that had stood untouched for ten thousand years. Sentinels, oaks, ironwoods, ash, chestnuts, elms, hawthorn, and soldier pines stood in abundance. Legends say Brandon the Builder built Winterfell itself around this very grove.

Benerro and his brothers of the Fiery Hand pushed through one of the small, wooden gates that opened into this primal place where the Starks of old prayed to the Old Gods of the North and were immediately hit with the smell of moist earth and decay, along with a strong sense that they were not welcome here. The gloom of the grove seemed to intensify upon their arrival, and the air was unnaturally heavy and dark. Benerro smiled, sent a prayer of thanks to R'hllor, and he and his comrades walked on. Their whole reason for being here stood in the center of this heathen place.

The forest floor millennia's old was soft under their boots as they walked the path leading straight to the Heart Tree; old, ancient, bone white with dark red leaves, and a melancholy face carved into the trunk with the eyes filled with dried sap the color of blood. The tree loomed over a pool of black water, and the three Fiery Hand approached the sacred tree of the Starks and stopped just before the pool. Benerro walked forward and looked into the still water, smiling at his reflection.

"It is here." He said to his comrades, "R'hllor's will be done, for the night is dark and full of terrors!"

"The night is dark and full of terrors." They responded and nodded. The two walked around the pool to stand on either side of the Heart Tree while Benerro stayed in place. He planted his spear into the dirt before him, closed his eyes, and splayed his hands out to either side of his body as if to embrace the tree, and began to speak.

"Lord of Light, I deliver you these false gods! Take them and cast your light upon us, for the night is dark and full of terrors!" He cried out to his lord.

"The night is dark and full of terrors!" Echoed the other two. As one, they raised their spears and stabbed the flaming points into the eyes of the Heart Tree.

And behind them, a ripple spread across the surface of the pool from the center.

**XXXX**

In the lands Beyond the Wall, Brynden Rivers threw back his head in a gasp of pain as red sap began to leak from his eyes.

**XXXX**

_Jon was dead._

The thought was fluttering around and around inside Bran's head like a trapped bird.

_Dead, dead, cold as ice, dead, dead DEAD-! _

"Lord Stark!"

The voice of Vayon Pool echoed through the cold hallway and their heads turned to see Winterfell's steward accompanied by a smattering of grim-faced men-at-arms hurry over to the Starks from the other end of the hallway. The Lord of House Pool was looking thoroughly disheveled with parts of his clothes black with ash.

"My Lord, my Lady, are-" Vayon called out before he and his men stopped dead in their tracks when they registered what was before them. First, he saw the eight direwolves; their shaggy coats formed a barrier in front of the Starks with ears flat, eyes glittering with predatory intelligence, and hackles raised. Second, he saw the body of King Robert Baratheon lying dead in a pool of his own blood. His throat had been torn clean out and there was a stab wound in his generous gut. It did not take a genius to figure out what had happened with Ice lying not even three paces from the dead King with her tip bloody and the mother direwolf's muzzle caked with crimson, "By the gods!" He gasped out.

"Lord Pool!" Catelyn cried out.

Vayon's eyes snapped to her, "My lady!" He uttered in a shaky voice. His gaze travelled from her, to her frightened children, the direwolves, the King's corpse and then back, "Where…where is Lord Stark?"

There was movement behind the direwolves and the beasts shifted to make way for his liege, who had been kneeling on the floor; hidden behind the wolves' bulk. When he turned, Vayon and his men audibly gasped at the figure he had been knelt over. It was the man from the courtyard; the dark blur that had come from nowhere. Vayon had only glimpsed him only for a moment, and it must have been an _it _for no man possessed such power, such inhuman presence! It had cut through the redcloaks like one cut a cake, shattered steel under its touch, _rose the dead! _Vayon was of the North, and he had grown up on the legends of the Others. The white hair he had glimpsed among all that black, the sword that seemed too thin, too clear like actual ice, the impossibly pale skin and blue eyes…

Lord Pool desperately wished to know what had happened here, but the sight of the inhuman being lying on the floor besides Eddard Stark's boots had his utmost attention.

"My Lord…" Vayon said in a voice he struggled to keep still. He pointed to the body, "Who…who_ is that_?"

Lord Eddard, who Vayon suddenly realized looked like he'd been dragged through all Seven Hells, turned eyes that were wide and anguished to the face of the one he held. It was actually quite frightening for Vayon to see the stern Stark countenance he was so familiar with nowhere to be seen and only raw emotion left.

"Vayon…" The voice of his Lord croaked, "This…this is Jon."

Vayon recoiled. Jon? Jon _Snow? _He'd disappeared from the castle and no one had seen hide nor hair of him from nearly a year now! He had been there when the Bastard of Winterfell stumbled into the great hall bloody and knifed nearly to death. No one could make heads or tails of the frightening event and all of Winterfell was on edge and wary for the longest time. Now, Vayon was a man who cared little for gossip and kept his focus primarily on the duties assigned to him by Lord Stark, but even he heard how the Jon Snow that emerged from master Luwin's care was not the same boy who entered. He did not know what the extent of those changes were, but what he'd gleamed was that the boy had become aloof, distant, and even cold. Then, he just up and vanished one night and no one could name why. All they knew was that Lord Stark desperately wanted him back and he wanted to keep the searches as quiet as possible. Then the killings began. Bandits, murderers, rapists, and less-than-respectable men all wound up the same way; dead. Word spread despite the secrecy. Vayon had received a letter from Lord Cerwyn and Lord Glover asking about the rumors surrounding Winterfell and odd sightings in the wolfswood; smallfolk reporting some blue-eyed demon and a direwolf killing all who did wrong under the cover of night. Suddenly, the rumors that surrounded Jon Snow made a lot more sense. Then again, _sense_ was the furthest thing from his mind when he tried to connect how Snow was…an _Other? _It was like something out of the wildest tale imaginable! Even more far-fetched than grumpkins and snarks!

"M-my Lord," He stammered, "What…what happened!" He couldn't help it; the body of the bloody KING was lying right there next to Lord Stark's sword!

"Lord Pool." Lord Starks spoke in a voice that was as commanding as it was hollow, "Have your men escort my family to a safe location."

"Ned-" Lady Stark began to speak, but Lord Stark's voice boomed over hers.

"DO NOT SPEAK!"

Everyone jumped; Lady Stark, the children, him and his men. Never, thought Vayon, could he recall a moment where the Lord so much as frowned at Lady Catelyn. Now, the look he turned upon his wife was one of cold fury. Vayon felt his mouth go dry when he looked back to him. Stark grey eyes swept over his men, "Take them to my chambers and guard them with your lives." He commanded.

His men simply offered him a brief round of "Milord." And did as such.

"Father?" Robb Stark called out as the men led them away. His blue eyes were wide and confused.

Eddard kept his back to them with his eyes focused on the apparent body of Jon Snow and did not respond. When they were gone, he asked Vayon, "What is happening outside?"

Vayon did his best to banish all of the wild and fearful thoughts running around his mind and took a deep breath before answering, "Winterfell is in chaos, my Lord. Over a dozen dead and who knows how many injured. Fires are spreading, the attackers have vanished, and the…" It was here he shot another look at Jon and stuttered out, "The dead have chased the Royal Procession back onto the kingsroad! Lord Stark, we need-"

"LORD VAYON!"

One of his men came charging up the stairs behind him. His voice was raw and panicked, and his expression doubly so. He came to a dead stop, panting for breath, and cried out in a horrified voice, "THE GODSWOOD IS BURNING!"

**XXXX**

_Sansa's blue eyes were fixed on the sight of the men milling and drilling down in the courtyard. Bran's reports pointed that the Army of the Dead would be on them by nightfall. Everyone was on edge and prepared as best they could. _

_"Do you think we'll win?" She asked as he joined her standing on the ramparts. _

"_We can." He replied, "We make our stand here and bring him down."_

_Rhaegal glided overhead and Jon felt his heart lift a little at the sight._

"_The Night King?" Sansa questioned._

_Jon's gloves creaked as they gripped the railing, "Yes." He answered lowly. Memories of Hardhome flooded his mind. At the sight of the horned demon staring him down as they floated away. At the challenge plain in that evil gaze as his arms rose, and the dead rose with them. Of Karsi's blue eyes staring after them as they bobbed away into the Shivering Sea._

_Sansa peered at him, "You're afraid of him. I've never seen you afraid before-" _

_Jon looked sharply at her, "You would be, too." He hissed, "You don't understand, Sansa. The Other's look at you, and you're nothing. They don't care if we think, or feel, or love, or hurt …they don't care. All they care for is our death."_

_Sansa's eyes were cool and sharp when she turned to fully face him, "I know what that's like, Jon." She said lowly._

_For once, Jon did not back down at the subject of Ramsay. Instead, he stepped closer to Sansa and made sure to stare into her eyes when he spoke, "Ramsay was an animal. A sick, mad animal." He let those words hang in the air before leaning in and saying, "I'd take him over the Night King if I had the chance." Then, he walked away from her. _

_He had a battle to prepare for._

* * *

_Jon cried out in exertion as the Walker he'd been fighting exploded into a shower of ice. He looked up, panting, and froze because standing across from him, was the horned visage of his nemesis. The Night King stood with his glaive held fast in his grip; the crystalline edge coated in frozen rivulets of blood. Jon felt his own blood boil at the sight of the demon that had fallen from his dragon-wight's back._

_This was it; the moment he'd hungered for! He'd gone so far as to decline Daenerys' offer to ride Rhaegal into battle just for the sole chance of meeting the King of the Others on the field! _

_Something inside of him roared to life when they locked eyes, just as it did at Hardhome, and demanded him in a howling voice to __**STRIKE HIM DOWN!**_

_He charged with a roar, Longclaw held high, and his enemies' weapon swung back to meet him, and the fight was on. _

_They fought. Gods how they fought. It was said that both armies, living and dead, seemed to pause to watch the White Wolf and the Night King trade blows across the battlefield; locked in mortal combat. Jon was later told how he had fought like a demon. He had been fueled by an abominable hatred unlike anything he'd ever experienced that made the Night King the focus of his entire being. Slaying the King of the Others was now his only purpose in life, his sole reason for existing, and nothing else mattered except thrusting Valyrian Steel between his blue eyes. _

_Then Rhaegal and the twisted form of his undead brother came tumbling out of the sky and landed upon the First Keep. The screams could be heard even over the sounds of the battle happening just outside the walls, and both Jon and his foe paused in their duel to witness an eruption of blue and orange dragonfire from where the smallfolk, along with their most important people had been kept. _

_Something inside of his mind screamed and cracked at the sight._

_When the shock faded, it felt like he was going to be sick from the horror and grief. Slowly, Jon and the Night King turned towards one another and locked eyes once more. The rage in his system climbed to new heights and a scream ripped free from his throat; a howl of devastation and pure, black hatred. The Night King's eyes narrowed a fraction and he took a single step back. A single wight came between them, but Jon slashed it so hard that the undead man was cut in half. Another took its place, then another, and another, and another. Soon, Jon's vision was filled with blue eyes and undead that formed a wall between him and the retreating back of the Night King. _

"_NO!" He screamed as he hacked and slashed at the wall of flesh in front of him. There was a shift in the tide of the battle that shocked the living. The Army of the Dead were retreating; obeying the invisible order of their King to vanish into the storm surrounding them. At first, men cheered and cut down the stragglers with dragonglass while Daenerys and Drogon rained fire and fury from above, but Jon continued to cry out in rage and hatred as he desperately tried to reach the fading form of his foe, who did not even spare him a backwards glance as he vanished into the blizzard._

* * *

The darkness surrounding him seemed to abate, but for only a moment, and what he saw made raw fear course through his body.

Fire.

_Red _fire.

R'hllor's fire.

It took the shape of a burning heart that pulsed so loudly that it was like a beating drum. The fire all but obliterated the darkness to illuminate him, and he felt its terrible will; hungry, consuming, desperate in its searching…

Searching for _him_.

Then came the voice. It was not the whispers of Bloodraven nor the earthshaking boom of the Other's collective will. The voice was low and hissing with a raspy undertone and a sinister edge.

"_My Champion!"_

The fire surged towards him, and Jon screamed. He screamed in fear, in horror, in pain as his very soul was singed by the encroaching flames. He needed to flee! Needed to get away from the fire! He tried to move but was stuck in place. With a desperate cry, Jon cried out with everything he had and stretched out his very being for anyone-_anything-_to save him! Just before the blood-colored flames engulfed him, Jon thought he saw something off in the distance. Something utterly _massive_-

But then a hand grabbed his shoulder, and he was pulled to safety from the hungry flames. _"NO! YOU WILL NOT TAKE HIM FROM ME!"_ The hissing voice screamed in rage and surprise. Jon blinked, and the darkness and the flames vanished. In place was a frozen tundra.

He was back beyond the Wall…

NO!

The hand on his shoulder spun him around, and Jon found himself staring into the face of the Night King. The frozen demon's lips were pulled back in the faintest of smirks and blue eyes were wide in triumph. Before Jon could so much as scream, the Night King's hands shot up to grip the sides of his head, nails digging into his skin to keep him still. A shadow passed overhead, and huge wingbeats kicked up snow drifts as the dragonwight hovered behind him.

The Night King opened his mouth and, to his horror, spoke in Daenerys' voice.

"_Dracarys."_

Blue fire annihilated his world, and Jon Snow _screamed._

**XXXX**

Tyrion had remarked that he had wanted to see the Heart tree that resided here, but now, Jamie wouldn't be surprised if the weirwood was burnt to ash, not that he really cared about the Stark's precious trees. Then again, that begged the question; what the bloody hell was he _doing?_

When Jamie pushed through the doors leading into the ancient grove of the Starks, the ambient heat that washed over him like a wave was enough to make him step back. Orange flames ate away at Winterfell's godswood turning brush and root and tree into ash. Flaming leaves and branches fell to the ground like rain, and smoke and ash choked the air.

Jamie had only paused to pick up a new sword before going after the men in orange robes; driven by feelings he could not place. Fortunately, no one tried to stop him. Everyone seemed to be running around like decapitated chickens and didn't have time to notice his dirtied white cloak and golden armor as he raced to catch up to the orange trio. He'd watched them enter the Guest House, and it was at that point, Jamie realized exactly he was doing and stopped in his tracks. What in the Seven Hells _was_ he doing? He should be getting the bloody hell out of this godsforsaken castle and getting back to the royal party! Speaking of royalty, where the hell was the king? Jamie had taken his eyes off Robert for a minute and when he looked back, he was gone! Better yet, he should go grab a horse, find Tyrion, and be getting back to Cersei and the children! Then a fresh cloud of smoke mushroomed into the sky from the godswood, and Jamie charged in without a second thought, still pulled by that indefinable drive.

_"What the hell are you doing?"_ Jamie asked himself again with a confused grimace and pushed forward into the burning wood, using his white cloak to block the ash and sparks flying at him. He'd barely gotten five steps inside before the sound of boots trampling on stones came from behind him and he turned to see a cluster of men and Lord Stark.

to a stop in the doorway, his grey eyes reflecting the firelight were wide with horror as he took in the destruction of this sacred place. Then, they fell on him.

"Stark! Fancy meeting you here." Jamie greeted blithely.

Stark's visage twisted into something feral.

"You!" The Lord of Winterfell snarled and stepped forward with his greatsword held at the ready. Jamie wanted to scoff. The fool honestly didn't think he'd caused this, did he? Apparently so, because the northerner stalked forward towards him seething with cold, northern rage. "All honor and no brains." Jamie thought as his grip tightened on his sword. Just when things were getting interesting, Stark stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes fell on something in the distance. Then, with a gasp, he ran forwards, regardless of the scorching branches and crackling fire. A fool to the last, it seemed.

"My Lord!" One of the men, some minor lord Jamie couldn't bother remembering, called out and chased after him with his quartet of men and completely ignored him. Jamie honestly felt mildly offended at that and headed after them.

The fire was hot, and the smoke was choking. By the time they caught up to the wolf lord, they were soaked with sweat and cooking inside their armor and ringmail. As for Stark, he'd skidded to a stop at the edge of a small clearing. The men in orange robes Jamie had followed stood around a massive tree engulfed in red flames. Two had their spears stabbed into its trunk while the third stood over the pool of dark water at the base of the tree. All three of them were chanting in a language Jamie could not understand. When the Northerners saw this, they charged with cries of pure fury, but none as loud as lord Stark, who ran with Ice raised high into the air.

All at once the chanting stopped, and the man at the base of the pool turned on his heel and raised a single hand. A wall of pure fire erupted from the ground in front of him and stopped the northerner's dead in their tracks. Jamie stared in shock at the dark-skinned man on the other side of the flames. His eyes…they were glowing; aglow with a fiery red that matched the fire burning the tree. His lips peeled back in a cruel smile that was all teeth. Behind him, the tree's fire jumped from the bark to the shafts of spears embedded there and raced up their lengths to consume their wielders. The fire burned as hot and fast as wildfire. The men screamed as the fire ate their robes, their armor, their flesh, muscle, and bone in the course of a few seconds. The smell…oh gods, the smell took him back to the days of Aerys. Then, the flames dancing upon their charred remains twisted and leapt into the air; ribbons of red fire that flew into the open mouth of the final man. Instead of being immolated from the inside out, the flame tattoos upon his flesh burst into actual fire. Red, of course, because _why wouldn't they be, _Jamie thought with terror rising along his spine. This was beyond unnatural at this point. He was too terrified to even move, let alone think properly. The northerners didn't seem to be faring any better, having backed away from the wall of fire and watching the nightmarish scene play out with wide eyes. Suddenly, the wall of flames winked out in a puff of smoke and the being before them took a step towards them over the blackened ground. Jamie noticed a portion of his robes had been burned away, and a pulsing red light shone from a hole in his chest. Sound was coming from it; impossibly loud and the unmistakable thumping of a heartbeat.

Then came the voice. A horrible, booming voice that possessed the shrill undercurrent of madness like Aerys'.

"_KNEEL BEFORE ME!" _

The northerners did no such thing. To their credit, instead of fleeing, the four guardsmen acted in defense of their lords and rushed the red demon with swords drawn. It was as brave as it was final. The fiery demon stretched out his hands and jets of more crimson fire exploded from his palms like a dragon, bathing the guards in its embrace. The fire stuck to them like mud. It was an evil, hungry thing that melted their armor to get at their vulnerable flesh. They dropped to the ground and their screams filled the air alongside the crackling of flames. Their killer walked past their writhing forms with those burning eyes fixed solely on Lord Stark. Vayon stepped forward and swung his sword at the demon's face, and an errant hand rose and swatted the length of his blade. There was a flash of red light and the steel glowed white and burst into molten slag from the point of contact. The Lord of House Pool screamed in pain when globs of molten metal splashed against his face and he went down clutching his right cheek and howling in agony.

"Vayon!" Stark cried out just before he swung Ice. The Red Demon sidestepped the swing, the same twisted smile plastered on its features and lifted his palm towards Stark's face and snarled in a great and terrible voice, _"I SAID KNEEL!"_

That was around the same time Jamie's boot knife came spinning through the air and stabbed into the demon's bicep. The demon hissed like a doused campfire and turned blazing eyes on him. Then it stepped back to avoid another swing from Ice. Jamie drew his sword free and spared Eddard Stark a glance. The Lord of Winterfell caught his eye and gave a shaky nod. Ah, well, at least he wouldn't die alone. The Kingslayer and the Quiet Wolf both turned to face the Red Demon, who stared back into their defiant eyes with ever-growing rage and hunger.

From behind them, howling winter winds cut through the burning trees, smothering some of the flames around them, and spreading frost along the ground. The Red Demon howled in surprise and fury, and both men turned to see a white mist rolling over the ground from the entrance of the godswood coming straight towards them. A shadow moved within the freezing mist, and the glowing blue orbs where eyes would be sent primal fear through their bodies.

"_NO!" _Howled the demon, _"HE IS MINE!"_

The roar of the demon was followed by another jet of bloody fire that punctured the mist and struck the figure within. Something long and sharp flew from the mist in response and ripped clean through the demon's left shoulder. It was a javelin of solid ice, long and sharp, and it made the demon cry out in agony. Steam billowed where ice met flesh and the point of the weapon was buried melted away. Jamie watched the length of it hit the ashy ground without a sound and let his eyes travel up to see that no blood flowed from the wound. Instead, tongues of bloody flame danced from the hole in the monster. The demon reeled in placed with a look of utter shock before looking back up and roaring a sound that had no business coming from a human throat.

Eddard, however watched as the white mist was swept away, and Jon Snow stepped forward.

His skin was a bluish white, like the color of a glacier. A crown of horns sprouted from his skull that held back his snow white curls. His black cloak was gone. Instead, he was decked in an odd light armor that looked almost delicate. Whatever it was, it was like a mirror that reflected his surroundings and shifted color with his every step. In his right hand, he held the same sword made of ice. In the other, white mist collected about his fingers and was spun into another long, sharp shape that began to solidify into another javelin. No longer looking thin and mummified, Jon possessed an almost alien beauty; inhuman, elegant, and dangerous. Ice and frost bloomed in his every footstep, and fires guttered and died. Jon moved with slow, liquid grace and stopped just before the clearing. Creeping ice met dancing, red flames and steam soon filled the air.

"Jon!" Ned, gasped.

Jon Snow did not acknowledge his voice. Eyes like blue stars were locked on the burning red of the demon before him.

The demon howled like a raging bonfire and cried out, _"GIVE ME MY CHAMPION!" _As whips of fire exploded from its hands and scorched the ground.

For a long moment, the boy called Jon Snow said nothing, but when he did, his voice was quiet in comparison to the demon's; softer, colder, and crackling like breaking ice. Most importantly, the voice he spoke with did _not _belong to Jon Snow.

"**The boy is mine."**

Slowly, his neck turned to stare into the wide eyes of Ned Stark who noticed that Jon's teeth were clear and sharp like icicles when he spoke next.

"**And winter…is **_**here."**_

* * *

_**Another chapter, another cliffhanger! I'm sorry for the long wait, everyone. Life has been hectic, I got a new job which is good, but cuts into any writing time I have. At least I get to keep the lights on! Anyway, this was a very difficult chapter for me to write. I really struggled with it, but I'm glad I managed to get it out for you guys that actually want to read this madness haha. I love to write, and this story is really a lot of fun to create. I write for myself, by it also makes me smile when other people read this and tell me that they like it. So, this one is for all of you who want to see more! Thanks a lot, guys. next time!**_


	14. Chapter 14

For a long moment, Ned stared into the burning blue eyes of what was once his nephew. So many thoughts of denial and fear twisted around inside his head like snowflakes in the wind, but then, the moment was broken by a whip of crimson fire cracking across Jon's face.

Jon stumbled back with steam hissing from the point of contact.

"_YOU DARE!" _The burning man howled in that terrible voice, _"YOU STEAL MY CHAMPION AND DARE TO IGNORE ME!?" _

The second whip lashed forward, and swung to cut it apart, but the whip roped around his sword like the flames were solid. The burning man tried to yank his weapon free, but Jon's grip was stronger than iron and the blade didn't budge. The spear in Jon's other hand, more of a javelin than anything, was aimed and thrown with inhuman precision and went clean through his opponent's chest. At once, all the fires dimmed around them even while the unnatural red flames blazed brighter as another roar of pain and anger filled the air. The burning man swung his arm up to aim at Jon, and the whip held in his grasp became a jet of crimson fire that scorched a glowing line across the ground. The attack was like the breath of a dragon; a torrent of unstoppable flames that engulphed Jon completely. When the fire finally sputtered out, Jon was standing unharmed amidst the flames save for a few wisps of steam curling off his armor. Jon tilted his head up, and a small, imperceptible smirk curled his thin lips. The demon snarled and yanked the length of ice from its body before hurling it away. A gout of fire flashed from the gaping hole in the man's torso, and the wound shone with red-hot light like the heart of a forge.

Eddard watched with a detached sense of incredulity as the shaft of frozen water embedded halfway into the trunk of the tree he was leaning against. He felt like a green boy on his first field of battle; sick and shaky with fear, but instead of staring down Crownlander soldiers or Ironborn reavers, he was trapped within his own skin witnessing a battle between two monsters of myth and legend wielding powers from the wildest of dreams. A groan of pain was heard above the crackling fire and howling wind, and Ned's head snapped to Lord Pool's motionless body. He was still alive! Purpose fueled him, then. He had to move, had to get Vayon out of the godswood and get to safety; they would surely die if they stayed here. Ned hurried across the ground, ash and snow mixing together under his gloves, and grabbed a hold of Vayon's shoulder to haul him up. A gauntlet grabbed Vayon's other shoulder and helped ease the weight. Ned turned and found himself staring into the wide green eyes of the Kingslayer. Jamie Lannister honestly looked as scared as Ned felt. His white cloak was burnt and blackened, his golden armor caked with mud, and all smug and swagger was replaced by wide eyed terror. Half of the once beautiful godswood was in flames while the other looked like it was in the grip of a harsh winter. Ash and snow swirled about in the hot smoke and freezing winds, and just before the supernatural creatures resumed their clash, Jamie spoke; "Run!"

The Night Prince stomped up to the embodiment of the Red God and slashed with his sword. A howl escaped from flaming lips as the blade slashed through robe and flesh alike, spilling more red light and fire into the air like so much blood. The Red God screeched in anger and frustration before vomiting a stream of flames into his nemesis' face. When a freezing hand rose to block the flames, R'hllor took that moment to seize the frozen fiend by his armor and hurl him bodily through the air where he crashed into the branches of a burning tree.

"_FOR TOO LONG YOU HAVE HID FROM ME!" _The Red God roared and snatched up the spear his vessel had planted into the earth. The spear erupted into a lance of crimson and blazing heat that was jabbed in the direction of his enemy as the branches snapped under Jon's weight and he fell to the forest floor. The fiery weapon tripled in length and struck the falling Other in the side. Jon was sent spinning through the air and landed hard on the ground with steam billowing from where he had been struck. The Other rose with eyes blazing like blue stars while red fire flared brighter as R'hllor stepped forward.

"_WHERE IS YOUR ARMY OF DEAD, COLD ONE? WHERE ARE YOUR SERVANTS OF COLD AND FROST? WITHOUT THEM YOU ARE NOTHING!" _

The fire lance stabbed out again and struck the Night Prince square in the chest, knocking him to his knees. More steam flowed from the hole in the mirror-like armor he wore. The Night Prince quickly rose and became a dark blur that crossed the distance between them in an instant, and the fiery lance disappeared when the Night Prince's blade slashed off the arm holding it at the elbow. The stump spewed forth a torrent of red light and flames, and R'hllor's bellow shook ash and snow from the air. Jon's following backhand struck R'hllor hard enough to send him to the ground. When the Red God struck the earth, the Night stood over him with sword held high to finish off his foe. R'hllor simply spat out another conflagration to engulf him; this one larger and hotter than the last. This time, Jon did not go unaffected by the flames and staggered back with steam hissing from every inch of his body. When the fire finally died down, sections of Jon's armor had been melted, it had lost its reflective aspect, and rivulets of water were streaming down his body onto the ground.

What was more, half of the Night Prince's bluish skin had seemingly been burned away to reveal a layer of pale human flesh underneath.

In the blink of an eye, the icy flesh of the Night Prince crept over the sign of humanity, and the infamous blue eyes of the Others glared balefully at the blazing form upon the ground. R'hllor began to laugh; a loud, hissing noise that sounded above the crackling flames surrounding them.

"_YOU HAVE NOT TAKEN HIM COMPLETELY! HE IS STILL MINE!"_

The Night Prince lunged, but a blast of fire erupting from R'hllor's remaining hand kept him at bay.

"_I WILL TAKE HIM FROM YOU! STEAL HIM BACK FROM YOUR WRETCHED CLUTCHES!"_

Crimson light flared from every open orifice and injury on R'hllor's vessel.

"_WITNESS THE POWER OF FLAME AND SHADOW!"_

All at once, the light and fire spilling from R'hllor was replaced by darkness. Liquid shadows poured from his body; smoky shapes twisting into skeletal forms that pulled themselves from his body like maggots crawling from a carcass. Some emerged from his open mouth, some poured from the slash across his chest, and one flowed from the stump of his right arm. Half a dozen figures soon floated into the air around R'hllor; all of them the upper torsos of skeletons connected to him by tails of darkness. All of them were made up of the same gritty blackness, and all of them let out ear-splitting screeches before they swarmed Jon like a pack of hornets. They attacked with gnashing teeth, blades for hands, and heavy blows that struck the Night Prince from every angle, and where they struck, cracks formed in his icy skin. The Night Prince in turn lashed out with swift swings of his sword. The shadows burst into frozen granules with shrill screams when the Other blade passed through them, but as quickly as they vanished, they reformed from the tendrils connecting them to R'hllor's form. The shadows began grabbing his sword arm to try and twist his weapon from his grasp. They bit, beat, and clawed at his wrist and arm to free the weapon killing them. Jon tried to swat them away, but his hand just passed through them. More shadows began flowing from R'hllor to join the melee, and the Night Prince was soon covered in a swarm of churning darkness.

The Other blade finally fell from the mess of grainy shadows and stabbed into the ground, wrenched free from its wielder. The shadows were free to attack without hesitation, and they pummeled the Night Prince to his knees and held them there. One of the shadows yanked the sword from the ground and floated over to present it to R'hllor, and the Red God reached out to take the frozen blade with his remaining hand. Still covered in the tumor-like protrusions that fed his shadows, he began to shuffle forward. The shadows moved all at once to present the Night Prince on his knees with his armor melted and deformed, and with cracks and whole chunks missing from his blue skin. What flesh could be seen underneath was bruised and bleeding. He struggled against the many shadows gripping him, but they held him from every angle with inhuman strength. His droplets of blood sizzled when they hit the earth as R'hllor approached. The fires were closing in around them, melting the snow and ice and leaving only ash behind until they were encircled by a ring of red fire. The Other blade in R'hllor's hand began to melt.

Even though one of the shadows bulged from his mouth, his voice filled the air.

"_MY CHAMPION!"_

The Red God's voiced dripped with madness, rage, and glee all at once. The Night Prince stared back with unblinking eyes and an emotionless expression, although he began to fight against the hands holding him like a desperate animal when R'hllor reached out with fire swirling about his fingertips. The shadows wrapped their hands around Jon's head and hair and yanked him up so that his chest was present to their master. R'hllor's hand melted straight through the remaining armor in a cloud of steam, singed away the filthy and ragged cloak underneath along with Jon's clothes until he touched icy skin. The fire surrounding R'hllor's hand sputtered and dipped, and the Red God hissed in anger. Eyes like twin suns bored into Jon, and R'hllor spat out a single word.

"_MINE!"_

R'hllor shoved his hand against Jon's chest, and red light and fire exploded from the point of contact. The steam that billowed out was hot enough to boil a man alive, but it was nothing compared to the scream that shredded the air.

Ned and Jamie were hauling Vayon back down the path towards the main entrance into the godswood when the high-pitched wail, loud enough to hurt their ears, made them stop with shouts of pain and turn to see what was behind them. R'hllor stood over Jon, his form bloody, maimed, covered in bulbous protrusions fueling the shadows pinning Jon to the ground. Steam boiled from where his hand was pressed against Jon's heart, and Jon…Jon was screaming. The Night Prince's head was thrown back, letting out that bone-chilling scream, and he was struggling against his captors to escape the agony.

R'hllor's hand melted away the frozen flesh and began to touch human flesh underneath.

"_YES…"_ He hissed as his fingers burned intoJon. Harsh blue light spilled into the air; the pulsing heart of a frozen star inside Jon's own chest. R'hllor snarled and reached deeper, burning through his chosen's skin, grasping for his heart. The entirety of Jon's body seemed to be melting. His blue skin shattered into whole chunks that sloughing off him into water, revealing more of the man underneath. The blue winked from his eyes, leaving Jon Snow's coloration once more, and the bastard of Winterfell let out a human scream of sheer torture as R'hllor began to laugh.

Ned's entire body locked up at the sound and he stared in sheer horror. It felt like his mind was breaking. The impossible events of the past year; his nephew falling to ghost knives, the night in the crypts, the reports coming in of Jon's actions-

"_Promise me, Ned!" _

Cat revealing the secret, Robert trying to kill him, the attack, the red priests, Robert _murdered_at his own hands, and now…_this-_

"Stark?" Jamie questioned when Ned let go of Vayon and turned towards what was behind them.

**He couldn't handle any more…**

"Stark!" The Lannister called when he began walking forward, Ice held at the ready.

**But he had to keep going…**

"_Promise me…" _

All he could see was the small bundle placed in his arms by his sister, his dear_, dear _sister; his nephew, his son, _his promise,_ on the edge of death-

Fire surrounded his sister's son and he was screaming, screaming how Eddard imagined his father and Brandon had screamed in their final moments of life; burned and tortured to death by a cackling madman, a madman who was laughing at this very moment-

The wolfsblood surged inside him and bayed for him to protect the pack.

His sister's final words echoing in his ears, fear gripping his heart, and his mind on the brink, Eddard once more ran for his nephew. His boots sloshed against the muddy ash coating the once proud godswood as he ran as hard and fast as he could. It was not a corpse possessed by a red demon Eddard saw. No, he saw the Mad King burning his family, the man whose death he was owed more than anything until Jamie Lannister stole it from him. Those horrible, burning eyes swung towards him, but Ned was already upon him. Ice howled as it cut through the air, the billowing steam, the shadows' connections to R'hllor…and the burning man's wrist.

R'hllor screamed in rage, pain, and confusion as his connection to Jon was quite literally severed. Many of the shadows holding Jon screamed and dissolved into nothing, and Jon slumped to the ground in a boneless heap. Fire flared from his newest stump and he fixed Ned with a glare that would have quite literally reduced him to ash if Ice didn't go straight through his open mouth and out the back of his neck with a loud crunch of bone. Ned roared as he kicked R'hllor off his sword and loped the monster's head off with his next swing. Fire exploded from his open neck like a roaring volcano and sent Ned stumbling back in surprise. What remaining shadows were screeching and flailing about in a hangman's dance, and one by one, they dissolved into dust on the wind when R'hllor's headless body hit the ground, still spewing fire and light from its many wounds. Ned dropped Ice to the ground with a hiss of pain. The blade was burning hot and glowing orange from where he'd slashed R'hllor. Ned watched the metal cool for a moment before he turned and hurried over to Jon's side for a third time that day.

From the waist down, Jon was still covered in the remnants of his armor, but from the waist up it had been melted into icy slag, and around his chest it was completely gone. The skin over his heart was blackened and charred in the shape of a hand; another horrid mark that joined the multitude of knife scars. Patches of blue ice clung to portions of his skin, but around his face it was completely gone. The cold that had perpetually surrounded Jon was gone as well. Ned realized this as he kneeled by Jon and gently placed a hand into his hair. Portions of it were singed and burned black, as was his scraggly beard that had been white like his hair. For a moment, Ned said nothing.

"…Jon?" He whispered after a moment.

Jon's eyes shot open. One was the flinty black he'd been born with, the one lined by the thin scar that had appeared on the day of the ghost knives. The other was the familiar, alien blue. Before Ned could react, Jon's hand shot up and seized him by the throat. The cold was back now, and Ned watched patches of blue ice slowly creep along Jon's skin to cover him once more. He gasped and struggled against the grip holding his throat, but Jon said nothing and glared at Ned with a look of wide-eyed fury. No, not fury, he thought as Jon sat up and began to stand with the Lord of Winterfell still in his grip. Ned recognized that wild-eyed expression from when Jon had awoken with the expression of a war-torn veteran gripped in a panic. Up close, he could see that Jon looked nearly at an age with himself. Older, even.

The grip tightened.

"J-Jon!" He croaked, "It's me!"

The blue eye remained eerily unblinking while the human eye…blinked.

"I-" Ned struggled to get in another breath of air, "-orry!"

The wildness faded from Jon's eyes and his expression drew into a confused frown when his eyes focused on him.

"…Father?"

The words were barely a whisper, but when the grip around Ned's neck slackened, he used what air he had left to respond.

"Jon…please-" He let his hand press against his nephew's cheek, "Come…back…"

Jon's eyes suddenly went wide at something behind him Ned felt the heat flare against his back, and before he could react, he was flung to the side. He crashed against the ground and looked up to watch in horror as the headless body, spewing fire and light from every open wound, collided into Jon. Jon reached out to grab his attacker as the corpse beat at his face with its remaining arm, and a disembodied voice dripping with madness and rage carried into Ned's ears, yelling the same word over and over again.

"_MINE!"_

The fire seared Jon's skin as he grappled with his enemy. No longer immune to fire, his flesh bubbled from where the flames touched him. Jon seemed to ignore it. His sole blue eye blazed with light, and white mist began to gather around him. He wrapped the red demon into his arms as tight as he could, even while his skin blackened and bubbled in some places while freezing over in others. He turned and locked eyes with Ned. In that moment, his nephew smiled, but it was tired and so, so sad. Ned reached out, but Jon leaned back and took R'hllor with him. Together, they tipped back into the pool below the still burning Heart Tree. The hit the still water with a loud splash and vanished under the dark water.

Steam curled from the water for a moment before it crackled with rapidly forming ice and froze solid before Ned's very eyes.

* * *

_**I told you I wouldn't abandon this story. Let me just say that this was very difficult to write to say the least. I lost my muse for this story to be honest for a while. That, and I had major writer's block. I felt like I sort of wrote myself into a corner and I actually considered rewriting the whole story and posting it as something else for a while, too, but…that's just not fair to everyone who likes this for the way it is. **_

_**I'm not good at explaining myself and some of you are just going to skim over this authors note, but to the ones who ARE reading, well aside from thanking you for your patience, and I have something more than just thanks. I've realized something over the past 5 months when it came to this fic, and that's stick to your guns, especially with writing a story. I had a vision for this story, and I'll damn well finish it! It might not be the best one on here, and I acknowledge that it has its faults, but over 500 people want to see more of this story and over 100 tell me they want more. I'm not going to change a damn thing. **_

_**I actually had, like, half of this written for the longest time and struggled to continue it. There was going to be a lot more going on with what I had planned, but, well…less is more sometimes. I shouldn't have so much trouble writing the next chapter, so you all won't have to wait as long. I'm been dedicating most of my focus to finishing my other story Silver Dawn, and I hope to finish that soon, but I won't ignore this one. In the next chapter, there's going to be a small earthquake and the godswood is going to fucking explode.**_

_**Thank you everybody. Winter Wolf is back on track!**_

_**Edit. Just fixed benjen to Brandon. That's what I get for being half asleep when I wrote that part. Fixed now and thanks to who pointed it out**_


	15. Chapter 15

"_They've taken to calling you the Lone Wolf now." Jon looked up from the poor excuse for a campfire to see Jamie Lannister's grizzled features coming towards him through the snowfall. _

"_A better title than ser Goldenhand." Jon said._

_Jamie held up the prosthetic for him to see, "Does this look golden to you?" He asked pointedly. The metal hand was rusty, dented, worn, and scratched with the pinkie finger missing. If it had once been gold, its glimmer had long faded. The last Lannister sat down across from him and sent him one of his smirks, even though they seemed hollow nowadays, "Ser Goldenhand and the Lone Wolf; the last of Houses Lannister and Stark. Has the making of quite the ballad."_

_Jon shook his head, "Bran is the last of House Stark."_

_Jamie scoffed, "Oh, please. We both know that boy is no Stark. If I have to hear him call himself the Three Eyed Raven one more time…" The Last Lion sighed and looked at him pointedly, "Remind me, who was declared King in the North after Robb? Who rallied the North in Stark's name? Who took back Winterfell? Which one of us cast out the Dragon Queen?" Jon shot a fierce glare at Jamie, who held up his remaining hand in apology, "It is the truth. Ask anyone who will tell you; those who know him do not see Brandon as a Stark. They only speak your name."_

"_We both know why I cannot be a Stark." Jon growled._

"_Speaking of dragons, where's yours?" Jamie asked, "Since it hasn't gone off on a rampage, I assume it's under control?"_

"_Bran is controlling Drogon at the moment. The Red Priests don't know the full extent of his powers. Bran will lead us right into the heart of their camp."_

"_Rescuing a sorcerer from fire-worshipping madmen." Jamie said with a tiny chuckle, "Now that would make another fine song if it wasn't the end of the bloody world."_

"_It's not the end!" Jon snapped before he calmed himself and spoke in lower tones, "It's not the end. Not yet. Once we rescue Bran, we can keep fighting."_

"_Unless they kill him first." _

"_They won't kill him. Not yet. They want me there before they burn anyone."_

"_That red woman is still after you, isn't she?" Jamie asked, his tone completely serious._

_Jon felt his lips curl into a snarl at the mention of Melisandre, "Yes." He growled, "And I'm going to kill every single one of her followers after this. Bran told me he might have found a way to turn the tide on all sides. It must be why they worked so hard to capture him in the first place."_

"_You still trust him?" Jamie asked skeptically._

"_Of course I do!"_

"_I don't." Jamie said, still dead serious, "I don't even think he's human anymore."_

"_He's my brother, Jamie! I'll carry him out of that damn place on my back if I have to! Tell me you wouldn't have done the same for Tyrion!" _

_Jamie was silent for a long time, "…The things we do for love." The last Lannister said the words like they pained him._

"_The things we do for family." Jon corrected and shook his head, "Love is the death of duty."_

"_Duty." Jamie spat the word like it was poison, "Let me tell you about duty, Aegon Targaryen." Jamie hissed the name Jon loathed since the moment it had first been spoken,_ "_Duty is a trap! Duty is a shackle that binds people to another man's ideals and responsibility, and the second you strain against that chain even for the right reasons, the whole world turns on you! I see on your face that you disagree. Let me tell you what I've_ _done for the sake of duty, hm? Let's start with my joining of the Kingsguard and how I had to stand and listen to Queen Rhella being raped by her mad husband over and over and over again! Do you know what I was told when I asked why we did not save her? That we were sworn to protect the queen, but not from him! Shall I tell you how I watched your uncle and grandfather, innocent men, tortured and burned to death before my very eyes and not be able to lift a finger to help because of my duty to the king? Or shall I tell you the story everyone knows? Of how I was branded a Kingslayer because I slew Aerys out of duty to an entire city? I should have let it all burn!" Jamie snarled before he forced himself to calm down and say, "Well…everyone knows the truth, now. King's Landing isn't there anymore; just a smoking crater, curtesy of Euron Greyjoy, the Crispy Kraken!" Jamie said that and aimed another one of his broken smirks right at Jon, "I hate the word duty, Jon. I hate it more than this wretched world has hated me. Tell me something, Jon Snow…what do you know of hatred?"_

_Jon sat there staring at the man he called an ally as a thousand different emotions boiled inside his heart. Jamie stared back with an expression of bitter cynicism while searching Jon's face. After a moment, he stood with a tired sigh, "I'm going to see to the men." He said, "What little we have at least. If we're to storm the Red Priests camp tomorrow, I wish them to be rested." Then, the Last Lion of House Lannister, ser Goldenhand the Just, the Kingslayer turned and walked away and left Jon alone in the dark with only his thoughts and the howling cold to keep him company._

"_I know enough." Jon whispered into the Long Night._

**XXXX**

Hatred had consumed him for so long. Blinded him, even. Funny how it only took him practically dying to see how much of a fool he'd been.

The Night King was his first hatred; a burning rage that howled through his blood and poisoned his heart. Nothing mattered but the demon's destruction. His hatred had caused him to betray Daenerys, neglect Winterfell's security, and ignore council to pursue the source of his hatred unto the ends of the earth. The Night King was R'hllor's enemy, and the Red God had chosen Jon as his champion. His fire had given Jon life, the same fire that the Night King took so that he could be sent through time, but on the day he rose from the dead, a seed of malice had been planted in Jon's heart; one that made him want to destroy the dead at any cost. When Ice replaced R'hllor's fire, the hatred changed to a contempt of all living things. It was subtle and paled in comparison to what a real Other probably felt, but it whispered to him of how destructive these creatures with hot blood in their veins are, how pathetic their petty squabbles and problems were in the grand scheme of things. Everything from the smallest gnat to the largest mammoth, all they ever did was take, take, take from the world and gave little back. Especially humans. Everything should just _die _and let the world freeze over.

The whims of gods and demons had driven him mad…or had they?

Had it been his own rage and hatred of the world that put him where he now was? Life had never been kind to him. Life had never been fair. Born a prince, raised a bastard, hailed as a hero, and then murdered for doing the right thing. And after that? He'd been raised from the dead, led an army, crowned a king, and when he'd given up his crown for the good of the world he was viewed with disdain. And then, he betrayed his aunt to focus on his vengeance and hate.

_Why is it, that in this shit world, no good deed go unpunished?_

Jon was old. He'd been fighting battle after battle for years, now. He had to be nearly at an age with his uncle, perhaps even older. The world weighed heavy on his shoulders and he bore it's given scars. Under the hate, under the rage, under the thirst for vengeance…Jon was tired. Tired and bitter to the world. For him, there was no honor, no duty, no love, only mindless existence and a vague sense of purpose. Violence and war was all he knew. Part of him longed for death; to be done with the world. When he returned to the past, Jon truly thought he could murder all of his problems away. Cersei, Euron, Baelish, the Freys, the Boltons, the Night King? Hells, even Daenerys; he wanted to just kill them all and ease the demons in his mind. What did he have to do to find peace? Was his watch truly endless?

Jon poured more frigid magic into the water around him, dousing the destructive flames of R'hllor's vessel still thrashing in his arms.

"_MINE!" _The Red God screamed inside his mind, _"YOU ARE MINE!" _

Jon looked at the dismembered corpse still glowing with red light as the ice hardened around them. For a moment, Jon felt pity on a god obsessed; a god with no purpose other than to oppose the Others.

"_I WILL NEVER LOSE YOU! EVEN IF YOU DIE, I WILL BRING YOU BACK! AGAIN AND AGAIN! YOU WILL FUFILL YOUR DESTINY!" _

"_Then I will never live!"_ Jon thought back, _"I will spend the rest of my existence holding you here. You will be my prisoner, R'hllor. You can never have me, Red God. Find another champion!"_

The Red God howled and struggled, but Jon was dipping into the full power of the Other's magic. The ice that formed around them was hard as iron and cold as the Night King's heart. Jon closed his eyes as the ice hardened around his face and the struggling beneath him slowed, _"Valar Morghulis." _He thought with a morbid smile, and he was consumed by blackness once again…

**XXXX**

But of course, for him, it was never that easy. No, he couldn't even try to sacrifice himself without outside interference.

"_Wake up, Jon Snow!"_Bloodraven's voice echoed in his ears,_ "Wake up and fight!" _

"What do you want." Jon hissed tiredly. He hadn't even bothered opening his eyes because he knew that if he opened them, he would not be in the frozen pool. Part of him wanted to stay in his now knelt position and not open his eyes for the rest of time.

It was Viserion's twisted roar that made his eyes snap open. The rush of wind overhead followed by the rumble of incoming dragonfire had him rolling to the side just as blue flames annihilated where he'd been kneeling. The heat from the blaze…was not as intense as it should have been. Jon shot to his feet and looked up into the snowy sky. His eyes picked out the dragonwight easily; it glowed with a pale blue light while its rider blazed like a beacon as they climbed higher and higher.

Jon took that moment to stare at his surroundings. He was in an absolutely massive clearing that stretched large and wide enough to fit Winterfell and the surrounding town inside it. What was more was that he could see the outline of a forest off in the distance; a forest filled with the tallest and thickest trees he'd ever seen. Their thick trunks and long boughs were so close together that not even the smallest bird could squeeze between the branches. The sky was overcast and a dreary grey with little light poking through the clouds. Jon shifted, and found that the ground under his feet was solid ice.

Where the hells was he?

Dark wings flapped close and Jon turned to see a raven flutter to the snow in front of him. Both its eyes were scorched shut and badly burned, but the third eye in the center of its forehead was wide open and the color of weirwood sap.

"Bloodraven?" He asked, "What happened to you?"

"_The Red God's power is stronger than I anticipated, but I can still see."_

"Where are we?" Was Jon's next question.

"_That is a question with a complicated answer."_

"Uncomplicate it!"

"_We are in the mind of another. A mind that is old and ancient, and has slumbered within Winterfell since the Long Night ended."_

…Why did he even bother asking sometimes?

"_Your connection to the Others has been severed, at least for now. It is the work of the Green!" _

Jon stared out into the distance at the many trees encircling them. He could see it now if he stared hard enough; the faint green glow of Garth Greenhand's power.

"_Listen to me, Jon Snow! As long as you allow him to control you, you will remain his slave!" _

"I am no one's slave!" Jon snapped harshly.

"_Then fight! Here in this place, he is cut off from the power his forces grant him!" _

"What do you call that, then!?" Jon shouted as the dragonwight wheeled about and came screaming towards him.

"_He possesses only what you've allowed him to take!"_

"For fuck's sake!" Jon spat at the Raven's riddlespeak. Then, he was running as Viserion doused where he'd been standing in another wave of blue fire.

His powers were back. Jon figured this out after he created a couple dozen yards away from his initial spot in just a few seconds. Then, he stared down at his hands in shock when he saw that they were made of flesh rather than ice. His cloak swept around his form, the fabric in perfect condition and patterned with frost. Then, there was the armor. It was almost ceremonial in design and rather light; greaves, boots, breastplate, bracers, but no helmet, gauntlets, pauldrons, or chainmail, but it lacked any significant weight and did not restrict his movements in the slightest. The material was black like dragonglass and reflective like a pool of still water. Jon saw his face reflected in the bracer and stared in shock. For one thing, he looked at least a decade younger, and not just because his hair was black once more. He looked the way he had when he'd been crowned King in the North. He lacked an unkempt beard and his hair was no longer a matted mess. His features were completely devoid of the ravages of time and the harsh lines the war of Ice and Fire had marked him with. He looked human, not a single trace of ice or frost, other than his eyes; those blazed Other blue.

"What…what is this?" Jon whispered, "What's happened to me?"

"_As he has taken from you, you have taken from him." _The Three-Eyed-Raven alighted on his shoulder and stared into him with his lone eye, _"Listen to me for there is much I need to tell you! There is more to the Other's magic than cold and death; it is ancient and old as the world itself. They were not the first to wield it!" _

"What the seven hells are you talking about!?" Jon shouted at him. Huge wings beat above them, and Jon turned to stare up into the crooked maw of Viserion hovering above them. The Night King glared balefully down at them from his place on the dragon's back. He looked positively furious. His eyes suddenly locked with Jon's, and Jon stumbled with a cry as the crushing weight of the Other's collective power slammed into him like a battering ram.

The mantra came, the endless mantra demanding that he obey…

_**Cold.**_

_**Ice.**_

_**Frost-**_

…Yet somehow, he found the strength to resist.

"NO!" Jon screamed in defiance. The ice under his feet audibly shuddered and _CRACKED. _He channeled the power, shunting it into his hands where it coalesced into the shape he wanted in a flash of blue light and frigid mist. Jon cocked back his arm and hurled it with a yell. The ice javelin screamed through the space the dragonwight had occupied if the Night King hadn't wheeled his mount to the side and took to the sky once more. Jon tracked him through the snow and sky; the glow of their magic making it impossible for them to hide.

"_I have little time here." _Bloodraven whispered into his ear, _"In this place, my connection grows weaker. If what you said remains true, that all you have is revenge, then take it! Become the Night Prince! Stand against the Night King! Usurp him! Break your chains and cast off your shackles! Red fire gathers in the world, Night Prince. Wake the beast beneath the ice; it is the only thing Others cannot kill. Let magic fill the world again."_

Jon barely kept his ear open to the words and stood his ground as Viserion tucked his wings and dived. The undead dragon screamed towards him with blue fire flaring in his gullet as its master leaned forward with blue eyes wide and a furious scowl on his face.

"_Bring about a new Age of Heroes." _Was the last thing whispered into his ear before the Three-Eyed-Raven vanished in a puff of darkness. Then, Viserion was upon him. The dragonwight pulled up from its dive to hover and unleash a torrent of blue fire directly onto Jon. He let the fire overtake him. Beneath him, the ice billowed up in great clouds of steam beneath his feet, melting and cracking, while Jon stood unmoving and unharmed. Not even his cloak was so much as singed. He felt the Others magic flowing through him; wild and vast, yet completely under his control in a way he had never felt before. When the fire stopped, Jon looked up directly at the Night King. The hated face of his enemy stared down at him with something akin to shock, and Jon bared his teeth in a wolfish grin.

The Night King didn't so much as blink.

Viserion, however, ceased his flapping, and over a thousand pounds of undead dragon dropped on top of Jon.

He hadn't nearly enough time to move before Viserion snapped him up in his broken jaws. The dragon's teeth dug into his armor and flesh but could not pierce either. The armor was tougher than steel, and his skin was equally so. Like the Others, the only thing that could hurt him now was dragonglass and Valyrian steel, and neither seemed to be present. Still, it was not a pleasant thing being trapped in the wight's jaws. Viserion's neck whipped this way and that, slamming him into the ice over and over. Jon roared in frustration and flailed his one arm that was not trapped, trying to form a weapon, but more fire erupted from Viserion's throat and evaporated his freezing mist. The dragonwight slammed him down again and dragged him across the ice. Then, it let go. Disorientated and rattled, Jon tried to move, but huge talons crushed him in their grip and squeezed with enough force to crack stone. Huge wingbeats sent snowflakes and chips of ice flying, and the next thing Jon knew, the ground was growing further and further away. Viserion carried him higher and higher into the air, and Jon struggled and thrashed with all his might, but not even his strength could break the grip of the undead monstrosity. All around them, a vast expanse of trees stretched off into the horizon as far as even his Other eyes could see. There was nothing but snowswept sky and green trees. There was no end to them; nothing but the trees and the circular clearing of solid ice on the ground below. All glowed with the Green's vibrant magic, and Jon suddenly understood.

It was a cage. A cage for him _and _the Night King. Jon did not know how the god-king of the Reach had done it, but if he made it out of this alive…well, perhaps he owed the man a story after all.

"_**What have you done?!" **_

The Night King's voice howled into his mind like a gale force wind. Jon looked up and stared into the identical eyes of his nemesis that were wide with rage. His mouth barely moved, but the Night King's words were loud enough to hear over the howling air.

"_**Release me!" **_

A laugh burbled out of Jon's throat as wind and sky whipped past him, "You're afraid!" He cried out in surprise and savage glee, "You have my memories! You've seen what happened! But this? This was never supposed to happen! And it _terrifies you! _I have your memories, Night King! I know you as you know me!"

Viserion finally flapped to a stop. They were surrounded by a swirling vortex of stormy clouds that billowed and changed shape like waves on the sea. The sight was oddly beautiful, Jon thought, as he stared up into the eyes of his enemy. The Night King peered down at him, seemingly searching for something. After a moment, he spoke, _**"You know nothing, Jon Snow." **_

Jon smiled; grim as death and twice as cold.

Freezing mist coalesced into the shape of a short-handled axe with a wide blade that Jon hacked into the talons holding him. It cut clean through the dragon's undead flesh and bit into the black bone underneath. Jon grabbed the weakened bone and pulled with all his might, and he was rewarded with the wet snap of the digit coming free. Viserion roared and vomited up another stream of flames, but it was too late. Jon got his other hand free and used all the strength in his body to chop into the next claw. Flesh and bone split like chopped wood, and Jon had enough room to wiggle free as the fire poured down on top of him. Then, he let go and allowed gravity to take him.

"I know war! I know hatred!" He whispered into the howling wind, "And I know you!"

Jon slammed back-first into the ice and spread huge cracks from the point of impact. Jon felt nothing. If anything, he felt more alive than he had in decades. The cold energized him, the ice under him was the surest ground he'd ever stood upon, and the frigid winds merely added to his power. He looked up into the swirling clouds, _past them, _and stared directly into the Night King's eyes as he urged Viserion into another dive. The axe still held in Jon's hand was overtaken by white mist. Its shape grew in length, straightening and sharpening into yet another javelin. Jon watched the winged form descend towards him and readied his throw. All the while, he kept his eyes locked with the Night King's as the dragonwight grew from the size of a sparrow, to a dog, to a horse, and then a house.

Jon threw with all his might.

The javelin flew through the air, but not towards the Night King, no. The projectile struck Viserion's left wing, right in the joint where the dragon's limb became a claw. It shattered bone, pierced tendon and muscle, and cut into the leathery membrane. Gravity did the rest. The dragon's downward momentum tore the opening in its wing wider and wider until it was nearly severed from its body. It tried to pull itself out of the dive, but it was too late; the ruined wing sent it tumbling out of the sky and corkscrewing to the ground with a resounding BOOM that sent a cloud of snow into the air and more fissures running through the ice. Jon was moving before the monster even landed; blurring across the ground like a loosed arrow with a cloud of freezing mist gathering around him and a length of ice forming in his swordhand. The dragonwight was still struggling to rise on its damaged foot and ruined wing when Jon reached it. His strong legs propelled him into a flying leap and his sword buried into the wights shoulder. Jon used it to haul himself up onto the dragon's thrashing body and leap for the Night King with a snarl of rage.

The point of a spear stabbed into his breastplate and knocked him off. The Night King, now armed with an icy weapon of his own, glared balefully down at Jon as he fell. The dragonwight's tail swept around and smashed into Jon a second later, sending him skipping and sliding across the ice like a stone.

Jon finally slid to a stop with a groan. That…had actually hurt. Jon looked down at his breastplate to see a spiderweb of cracks where the Night King had stabbed, and his chest ached something fierce underneath. While falling from the sky, dragonfire, and getting knocked around could not hurt him, it seemed that the Night King could. Jon shook off the pain and got to his feet. The dragonwight was clumsily limping towards him, dragging its belly across the ground with its good wing and spitting errant streams of fire. The Night King sat proudly on its back with his spear growing in length until it was a proper lance with the tip a needlepoint of ice. As they moved, the wind was sucked into a vortex around the King and his mount until a small snowstorm surrounded them. Suddenly, Jon felt the Other magic being wrestled away and he saw more than felt how the Night King was trying to funnel all of it into himself until there was none left. Jon grabbed onto the magic and pulled with all his might in a metaphysical tug of war. Sheets of ice bloomed beneath his feet and crackled outward from his body as a cloud of white mist surrounded him. It took all his focus to keep a hold on the magic, and Jon had to open every facet of himself to the power and allowed his spirit to be filled by the raw might of sheer _**winter. **_The battlefield was soon transformed into a blizzard; wind and ice billowed and swirled in gale force wind, snow blanketed the ground in seconds, and the world was turned white. The only other color was the blue fire of the dragonwight and the glow of the King and Prince's eyes.

As Jon pulled more and more of the Other's magic into himself, he felt every snowflake, every shard of ice, every droplet of frozen water, and every ounce of cold that was under his control. There were no dead here to raise, and the only wight here was under the Night King's control, so Jon focused on the aspect of winter. He buried himself in that power and pulled all of it into the glowing blue star that had become his heart. Let the Night King hold power over the dead, Jon thought, he would rule over winter itself! The deeper he dove, the more that was revealed. Symbols passed through his mind, symbols he'd seen the Others form with dismembered corpses, and through the Night King's memories, Jon understood what they were.

Runes; ancient runes of power.

He saw the Spiral and understood what it meant; Storm. There was another, a circle with a line through it that had three forks at the bottom. Jon instantly knew that it stood for Wight. The knowledge filled his mind and was translated by the Night King's memories. These runes, these symbols, had been created for the Others to let them control Cold and Death. It was their language and written word.

_Skroth. _

Winterspeak.

But there was more, for the language of _Skroth_ was not theirs alone. As Jon's heart filled with more power and the Night King's memories unfolded, he saw…

…Saw when the Night King had met _her._

_She was tall and regal; thin, angular face, high cheekbones, pointed ears, pert nose, full and lush lips, but her beauty was alien in a way no mortal could achieve. She was dressed in a pure white gossamer gown spun from pale silks. Both her long hair and fair skin were whiter than snow. Her lips were the color of winter roses, as were her sharp nails. A jagged crown of tall icicles adorned her head, as did the jewel hanging from a headchain that rested in the center of her brow. The jewel and her eyes were exactly the same; oval shaped, solid blue, and glowing with wintery power. She leaned in and whispered in a voice softer than falling snow, the language of Skroth, and all the magic that came with it. _

_She was the unseen queen of the White Waste, the demon mother of Ice Giants, and the cause of the Shimmering Lights over the Shivering Sea. He knew not her name, but he knew her only by the title the Children had given her. _

_Night's Queen._

**XXXX**

**Something shifted under the ice. **

**Something that had long slumbered in the sleep of death for many a millennia.**

**Something that was awakened by the cold and magic swirling above it.**

**Something that was drawn to the conflict.**

**Deep beneath the ice, pale blue eyes snapped open.**

**XXXX**

Jon and the Night King's battle for control of the Other's magic had finally come to a head. The two of them were surrounded by cyclones of wind and snow and ice. Jon poured all his rage, all his hatred, his grief, his despair, his determination, and his power into his storm and held it _tight,_ and with a cry, he unleashed it. The Night King did the same, and the two storms slammed into each other with a resounding BOOM of artic wind and air.

Jon was lifted off his feet by the shockwave and slammed down hard on the ice. When he looked up, he saw that the horned king of the Others had not moved and was sitting tall and proud on his mount's back with his lance held ready. Viserion, however, was looking worse for wear. The dragonwight was covered in snow and barely holding itself upright. Sheets of ice clung to its scales and its deceased flesh was frozen solid. The fire flashing from its open throat was not as bright as it usually was, and when it turned to face Jon, frozen chunks of scale and flesh cracked off and shattered against the ice. Viserion let out a garbled scream and began lurching towards him with fire flaring from the open hole in his neck as he began to pick up speed. The Night King lowered his lance to point directly at Jon's heart with blue eyes boring into his.

Jon stood to his feet and took a moment to stare across the frozen battlefield at the incoming threat.

Then, slowly, he began to raise his arms.

Jon watched as the Night King's eyes narrowed as he did so, saw them widen when the snowbanks surrounding him began to shift and the first chitinous legs broke through the snow. A cold smirk played on Jon's lips as they shook themselves free and surrounded him, their mandibles clicking and clacking, their eight beady eyes the color of winter roses locking onto the Night King, and their hairy bodies blending in with the surrounding snow.

The tales spoke of how the Others hunted men with ice spiders as big as hounds.

The tales were true.

There was more to them, however. The ice spiders had been a gift to the Others. A gift from _her; _the Night's Queen, whatever she was. In his mind, Jon saw a massive cavern filled with luminescent sacs of webbing, and in the center lay their mother; a massive arachnid covered in white hairs like a polar bear. Eventually, the mother spider had died after birthing thousands of children for the Others to use.

Now, they were here again, brought to life by the Night King's memories and Jon's newfound understanding of his magic.

The ice spiders were unlike any spider he'd seen, not that there were many in the North to begin with. He had created over a dozen of them; their bodies robust and large, covered in wooly hairs that blended perfectly into the snow. Their legs were thick and strong, their fangs white as milk and long as a man's finger, dripping with clear venom. They were also indeed the size of hounds; larger, in fact.

"_Bring it down." _

Jon spoke the command in the crackling language of Skroth_, _for it was the only language they would understand.

They were also very, very fast.

They moved all at once. Their eight legs propelled them across the ice towards the approaching dragonwight, the tiny claws on the ends of their feet giving them excellent grip. The dragonwight brought itself to a clumsy stop as the furry bodies scuttled closer and unleashed a jet of fire. The ones caught in the blue flames were melted into ash, but the others veered off to hit the dragon from the left and right in a pincer. The first one got in range and leapt from the ice with limbs splayed and mandibles dripping poison, and the Night King's lance skewered the arachnid just as quickly. Blue ichor ran down the length of his lance as he glared at the creature twitching upon his weapon before turning just in time to be tackled by the one that had crawled up his wights tail. The dragonwight spun this way and that, crushing some under his weight and scorching them with his breath, but the ice spiders were relentless. They swarmed along his back, tail, belly, remaining wing, and legs. In their wake, sticky strands of webbing were strung across the wights body. Meanwhile, the Night King had hit the ground with the ice spider scrambling to bite his face. He held it back with a single arm and used his other hand to punch clean through its abdomen. The creature went limp, and he threw it off him. He stood with glacial slowness and turned to watch his wight struggle with the dozens of many-legged beasts covering its body. The ice spiders worked together, binding his dragon's legs to make it loose balance and stumble onto the ice with a _boom_ where it flopped to rise with one good wing and tangled feet.

They would not hold it forever.

The Night King picked up his weapon and marched forward with the intent to help free his wight, but a bellow of rage and howling wind made him turn in time to catch Jon's ice blade on the shaft of his lance. Jon pushed forward, shoving the Night King along the ice with sheer strength alone and broke off to stab at his belly. The Night King backed up from the stab, sidestepped the follow-up swing, and swung the length of his lance into Jon's legs. Jon buckled with a cry of anger and swung his sword to bat away the point that jabbed for his face. He righted himself and moved as fast as he could, smacking away another thrust and moving to flank his enemy, but the Night King tracked his every move and backed away to create distance.

Behind them, Viserion unleashed a frustrated jet of fire into the air as the spiders began working to pin him to the ice with their incredibly sticky webs, starting from his tail and sides. The dragonwight struggled and thrashed, but his damaged foot and mangled wing made it hard to gain the traction the spiders were working to deny.

Jon lunged, but it was a feint, and he leaned away from the lance long enough to reach out and grab it with his other hand and yank with all his strength. The Night King instantly let go to not be pulled off his feet, and Jon moved into his guard with his sword swinging for his neck, but the king of the Others ducked under the blow and shoved his shoulder into Jon's chest. Jon's steady footwork kept him from stumbling, but the Night King copied his move by reaching up to grab Jon's wrists to hold his sword still. Then, he twisted and hurled Jon to the ground. After that, he went for his lance again, but was forced to dodge the arc of Jon's hurled sword.

Then, Jon followed suit, lunging and tackling the Night King and slamming him onto the ice.

It soon became clear that the Night King had no experience with grappling, and Jon was soon on top of him. With a yell that contained all the suffering he'd carried over the years, Jon brought his fist down on the Night King's right cheek. He didn't care if it wouldn't hurt, he just wanted to _hit him_. To both his and the King's surprise, chips of ice flew from where Jon struck, and the Other's horned head bounced off the ice with an audible _thunk_. The surprise didn't last long. That horned head spun back to glare at him, and the blow that caught Jon's jaw knocked him off. The Night King made to rise, but Jon lashed out and kicked his legs from under him. He slammed down onto his rear while Jon rolled back onto his feet. The Night King gracefully rose as well and turned to face Jon, who glared right back at him with blue eyes shining with wintery light and his sword once again clutched in his grip. The Night King didn't even bother looking down when he slipped his boot under the shaft of his lance and kicked it up into his hand.

Viserion chomped down on an ice spider that got too close and let out a screech before breathing fire directly into the ground. The heat made the silk catch fire and melt while the frozen ground steamed and cracked, and a single line split the ice and stretched out between where the Night King and Prince stood.

With a roar, Jon charged while the Night King readied his lance and thrust at Jon's face. The Prince leaned out of the way and ducked when the King swung the polearm to clip his head. The King pulled back his lance while Jon pushed forward, making him backpedal to keep Jon from getting inside his guard. A series of rapid-fire thrusts and jabs kept Jon at bay as the Night King continued to back up, and Jon realized that he was walking backwards towards Viserion, who was finally freeing himself from the webs and roasting what ice spiders remained.

"No you don't!" Jon hissed.

He smacked away the lance's tip and lunged. The Night King tried to scoop Jon's legs from under him, but he dropped to the ground in time to catch the lance's shaft. With all his strength, he shoved back this time, smacking the Night King in the chest with the haft and catching him off-guard. Jon ripped the lance from the Night King's hands and stood back up while dropping his sword. With both hands he swung the lance into the King's side and sent him sprawling onto his hands and knees, then, adjusting his grip, he stabbed at the Night King's face with a cry. The King's frozen hand came up to block, and the point went straight through his open palm. His fingers closed around it, and a moment later, the entire lance shattered into pieces. Jon started when the weapon broke apart in his hands while the Night King rose back to his feet. He held his blue hand in front of his face to examine, and Jon watched as the hole slowly began to close. Ice crept in around the hole until it was never there, and the Night King made his hand into a fist. The mist formed around that fist and quickly formed into the massive, square-headed glaive he had wielded against Jon in the battle for Winterfell. Now it was Jon walking backwards, at least until he was able to bend down to grab his sword and face the Night King once more. He strode towards him without hesitation and Jon met him with sword held high. The curved glaive cut an arc through the air that would have landed on Jon's collar if he didn't dodge. In turn, Jon swung for the Night King's fingers, but the Night King lifted his hands away before stepping back. For a brief moment, they circled each other like a pair of wolves. When Jon pressed the attack, the glaive swung to chop him in half, and he parried with a growl. It came for his head next, and he leaned out of the way of the strike. The Night King kept backing up with Jon pursuing him with rage in his eyes and sword swinging, much like how it was when he'd been the White Wolf dueling the king of the Others outside of Winterfell. Only this time, Jon had something the Night King did not; speed. He blurred to the side, cloak billowing in the wind, and reappeared directly on the Night King's right and well outside the length of his glaive. For a moment, they locked eyes as Jon swung his sword in a forward slash that would have taken the Night King's head if not for the jet of fire that caught him from behind and threw him off his feet. Viserion, now free of the webs let out a triumphant screech. The blue smears along the snow and roasted husks were what remained of Jon's ice spiders. No surprise there, they were always meant to hunt men, not undead dragons. It mattered not. Jon rose to his feet and stared at the dragonwight barely managing to pull itself across the ice on its remaining wing, then turned to stare down its master.

"You know how long I've waited for this?" Jon hissed in _Skroth_. He pointed his sword at the Night King and began walking forward, "Ever since I saw you at Hardhome, I wanted to kill you! You won't escape me this time. Not here!"

"_**You're Wall means nothing. YOU mean nothing. You are merely a usurper. All who embrace the cold belong to me!"**_

The Night King's voice was low with malice and hatred. Viserion loomed over his master's shoulder and spat a jet of fire that swallowed Jon whole. Jon walked _through _the fire, powering through the blue flames until he stood a stone's throw away from both of them.

"You gave me your power!" Jon yelled, "You knew the only way to win was to undo the Red God's work! You had to make me like you!" A thought struck him then and he barked a laugh, "In the lines of succession, that's called legitimization!"

"_**That power is mine!"**_

Jon kept talking, "Bloodraven AND Garth Greenhand called me the Night Prince! They knew it before me! How am I a usurper, then, if you gave me your name?"

Viserion went to breathe fire again, but Jon acted first. He transformed his sword into a throwing spear and hurled it with all his might at the dragon's face. The force of the blow rocked the dragonwight's head to the side and cut off the stream of flames, and Viserion swung his head back to scream at Jon with the spear buried deep in his eye.

"First, I'm going to end you here." Jon declared as a fresh sword formed in his hand, "Then, I'm going to go Beyond the Wall, and _kill_ you."

Viserion roared, fire flashing from his open throat while the Night King glared at him. Jon glared right back, "Let's finish this!" He hissed.

The standoff was interrupted when the ground began to shake.

A loud rumbling filled the air as huge fissures began opening up in the ice all around them, and large chunks were pushed upward as something forced its way to the surface. The ground Jon was standing on buckled and shifted, and he jumped just as it broke apart beneath his boots. Something utterly enormous exploded free of the ice in a shower of razor shards and hunks of frozen water the size of boulders. The force of the eruption blasted Jon and the Night King off their feet and onto their backs as the shadow of what had just broken free cast their world in darkness. Jon shifted with a groan and turned from his place on a sideways chunk of ground, and his jaw dropped.

His first thought was that it was larger than Drogon. Much, _much _larger. Vast, translucent wings stretched wide over the treetops as the creature rose to its full height on two powerful legs. Great talons the size of scorpion bolts gripped the edge of the hole it was pulling itself out of and crushed ice into powder as it rose. Its body was a pale, whitish blue, and its hide was completely crystalline and smooth like it was made of living ice. Curtains of rime cascaded from its body in sheets. Rows of spines and spikes ran from its head, down it's long neck, across its back, and to the tip of its tail in an armor of icicles. It also looked nothing like Deanery's dragons, either. It was more avian than reptilian; standing on two legs like an eagle or a great heron rather than crawling like a bat, and its face was slim and narrow while its snout curved like a hooked beak. Clouds of mist billowed forth from its nostrils as it breathed, and when it opened its eyes, they were like pale blue crystals that shone with an inner light. The Ice Dragon, for it could not be anything else, shook itself before it let out a deep, sonorous roar that shook the very earth and sky.

At the moment, Jon could not focus on such things and only stare in awe at the beast from Old Nan's legends. It towered higher than the Great Keep in Winterfell and blazed with pale light to his Other eyes; a creature of pure magic. It seemed so massive that it could rival even Balerion the Black Dread in terms of size. Jon remembered Old Nan's tales, that Ice Dragons were rumored to be larger than Valyrian Dragons and that they glided over the Shimmering Sea, the place where Jon now knew the Night Queen ruled. Was this dragon and the Queen connected somehow? Were there more Ice Dragons? The Ice Dragon folded its massive wings and sent a fresh rain of hail down upon them. Jon didn't even bother trying to dodge as the fist sized chunks bounced harmlessly off his skin and armor.

This had to br the beast beneath the ice Bloodraven had spoken of. He had also said they were in the mind of another…

Were…were they in this Ice Dragon's mind?

But how?!

Why?!

_What else was out there?_

The Ice Dragon blinked its gigantic, crystal eyes. Once, twice, then its great head snapped in the direction of the Night King and Viserion.

All of the dragon's spines bristled and stood on end like a row of spears and produced a loud rattle that filled the air. The dragon turned its whole body to face the Night King and his wight, and Jon had to duck its gigantic tail as it swung over his head. Viserion unleashed his distorted roar, and the Ice Dragon responded with its deep, booming cry. Blue fire splashed against the Ice Dragon's chest and made it roar in surprise and pain, but mostly anger. A single flap of its gargantuan, clear wings dispelled the blue flames, and the Ice Dragon's head reared back with its narrow jaws wide open to reveal rows of short, needlelike teeth. A loud hiss filled the air as it inhaled, and then its head shot forward with jaws open wide. Old Nan's stories said that an Ice Dragon's breath was very cold, and Jon had imagined that, if an Ice Dragon did exist, it's breath would just be a blast of winter wind. What came out of that dragon's throat was not air.

A jet of condensed liquid that boiled with freezing mist exited the dragon's throat. When It struck Viserion, the dragonwight screamed and tried to move, but the Ice Dragon's attack froze its flesh solid. The dragonwight's head crumbled into a pile of frozen chunks as the freezing liquid blasted through the rest of its body. Blue fire flared for a moment and was gone just as quickly. When the Ice Dragon's jaws closed, all that remained of the dragonwight was a twisted clump of discolored ice that was so cold it steamed. The Ice Dragon turned to the Night King next with spines rattling in agitation. The Night King took a single step back with his eyes locked on the dragon's. His hand raised up, almost as if to touch the dragon from his position from the ground.

"_**Urrax!" **_

Was what the Night King said before the Ice Dragon inhaled and blasted him with its freezing breath.

The dragon didn't stop and kept up the stream for at least a full minute, tail thrashing and wings splayed in aggression. When it was finally over, Jon stared in shock. The glowing blue outline of the Night King was trapped in a small spire of solid ice with his blue eyes open in surprise and hand still outstretched. Then the dragon's foot stomped down and crushed both the ice and King into powder. Nothing remained of the Night King when it lifted its foot, and not a single speck of his magic was seen by Jon, either.

The dragon snarled and lifted its head to scream at the sky in victory, and Jon stumbled from the soundwave. When the dragon quieted, it stood there, heaving great breaths and staring around at the trees. Jon shifted ever so slightly, and a small cascade of ice chunks were knocked about by his feet. The Ice Dragon's head whipped around and spotted him instantly. He wasn't hard to miss; a black speck against the white snow. For a moment, they stared at each other, blue staring into blue. It sniffed the air before it snarled and reared back while inhaling another hissing breath.

"Oh _fuck!_" Jon cursed. The Ice Dragon's head swept forward like a striking snake, and Jon ran. The jet of liquid rime splashed over the ground behind him and hardened into a twisted formation of ice. Meanwhile, Jon was hopping over deep cracks, hopping off upended chunks of ice, and skidding to a halt a dozen yards away. The Ice Dragon's footsteps shook the ground as it walked over to scrap at the ice Jon would have been encased in with its talons. It spotted him again out of the corner of its eye and whipped around to face him with spines rattling and a roar filling the air. Another blast of rime came, and Jon sped out of the way just as quickly. When it saw this, the Ice Dragon reared back in surprise and peered at him with intelligence glittering in its glowing eyes.

Urrax, the Night King had called it. Was that its name? What connection did they share?

Jon turned to the Night Kings memories.

_He saw the Night Queen, clad in nothing but her gossamer gown riding atop the Ice Dragon. He felt the greed, then, the Night King's greed. He WANTED that dragon, more than anything, but was denied at every turn._

"_Why would I trust you?" She had told him, "When you have betrayed your creators? Now they work with the ones they created you to destroy. I helped create you as well. You shall betray me, too." _

_He tried to convince her, but she still refused and flew off into the Northeast. _

_The scene changed, and numerous White Walkers were chanting in Skroth, all calling out the dragon's name. At last, the creature came. It was young by its standards, and prone to the curiosity of youth. It knew them not as enemies, but as allies of its mother. They brought the horn forth, next; a creation of their magic made of ice and carved with Skroth runes. When they blew, Urrax began screaming in pain. They could not kill him; not even their weapons could pierce his hide, so they used their magic to bind him to their will. _

_The horn did not work._

_The Ice Dragon's will was too strong, and as Urrax shook himself free of their magic and cried out, light split the sky. Shimmering streamers of green, blue, red, and yellow carried with them the rage and command of the Queen. Urrax let out a roar before he took off into the sky and flew south to assist the Realms of Men and the Children. _

_It was through his help, that the Wall was created._

Jon stared at the Ice Dragon with new understanding. The Others had tried to enslave it, and it had defied them. Now, it despised them. He still had no idea where the creature had come from, where it had gone, or how he had been transported into its mind, but right now, he needed to convince the dragon that he was not its enemy. Easier said than done. Still, he had to try! He knew dragons were intelligent, knew that they were more than mere beasts. He knew for a fact that Drogon had resented him every moment he was not under Bran's control; he knew Jon was the one to blame for why his mother was dead.

"My name is Jon Snow!" He called in Skroth.

The dragon tilted its head and snarled at him. Its great talons dug into the ice and it began plodding towards him while another jet of rime flew from its maw. Jon's speed carried him out of the way of the blast.

"I am not one of them, Urrax!" He called the dragon's name when he came to another stop, "I am not one of them!"

For a moment, Urrax stilled and regarded Jon with his sharp eyes, and he thought he had gotten through to the Ice Dragon. Then, great wings cracked open and buffeted Jon with wind and snow. Urrax's knees bent, and a single leap and flap of his wings sent him airborne. Once again, Jon was treated to the sight of a dragon falling from the sky towards him. He tried to run again, he really did, but the ice Urrax had been sleeping beneath was so utterly shattered, and not even Jon's speed could carry him out of the shockwave the Ice Dragon created when it landed. Urrax struck the ground like a falling star and upended what little even ground remained. Jon was blasted off his feet and flung into the air with a cry of surprise. He bounced once, twice, thrice, and came to a jarring stop when he slammed against a block of solid ice so large it could be considered a glacier. Jon flipped himself over with a loud curse and a groan. While he was unharmed, being thrown about like a child's doll wasn't fun either, and neither were the great talons that suddenly encompassed his vision and descended towards his face.

Urrax's massive claws stabbed into the ice and held him there like an eagle with a mouse. Jon stared up and _up_ into the snarling visage of the Ice Dragon pinning him to the ground. Rime billowed from the dragon's panting maw as it glared down at him with all the fury of winter itself. Jon gulped, and steadied his heart.

"I have died twice, now, Urrax." He whispered the dragons name, "I am not afraid of death." The two spiny, fin-like protrusions on the side of the dragon's head Jon guessed were ears flexed and tightened at his words, "I'm afraid of the Others." He continued, "I fear them, and I hate them." His mouth was suddenly dry, and he wet his lips, "I know you can understand me. I know you hear my words!"

Urrax's lips curled to reveal his short but sharp teeth.

"I have their powers, but I'm not one of them." Jon told the dragon, "I'm not one of them! I have blood in my veins and breath in my lungs! "I fight for the living, Urrax." Jon hissed the words and stared into the dragon's eyes, "What do _you _fight for?"

Jon found it rather eerie how such a massive creature could be so motionless. The dragon was as still as a statue and hadn't so much as blinked. Even it's breathing seemed to have paused as it loomed over him; tall, cold, and as vast as the Wall.

Suddenly, the talons tightened around him, shredding through the ice and crushing him in their grip. Jon's cries were drowned out by Urrax's roar as the Ice Dragon spread its gigantic wings and leapt into the air with him still in its grasp. The wings beat once, twice, thrice, and they were flying up, up into the air, higher than even Viserion and the Night King had flown-

-Away from the forest, away from the ice, and into the sky.

**XXXX**

Back in the waking world, Eddard Stark was praying at the foot of the scorched Heart Tree. The white wood was scorched black and ash fell from the face carved into the trunk as if all the sap inside had been burned up. He was praying. Praying for the world to make sense again, praying for guidance, praying for _anything to-_

A loud crack sounded through the clearing, and Eddard spun to stare at the frozen pool where a single crack was spreading out from the center. He hefted Ice, readied himself, and cautiously approached the pool. A small ball of red fire zipped from the crack, making him flinch at the sight, but he could only watch in confusion as it shot straight up into the air and vanished among the falling snow. With a loud CRACK, the rest of the ice exploded outward, and the burnt and mangled form of his nephew crawled his way out, gasping for air.

"Jon!" He shouted as Jon crawled to the lip of the pool and collapsed in a shaking heap, still panting heavily.

His hair was black once more. He looked younger, less haggard, and his body was not made up of blue ice and frost. When he looked his way, Ned could have wept in relief when he saw that Jon's eyes were the flinty dark he'd been born with. When he reached his nephew's side, he helped him roll onto his back to sit up. Ned swallowed when he saw the angry red burn scar in the shape of a hand emblazoned across Jon's scarred chest. He looked towards the pool, searching for the headless corpse, but saw nothing.

"I'm sorry…" Jon was gasping, over and over, "I'm so sorry…I-"

The godswood began to shake. Snow and leaves shook from the trees, ash danced on the ground, and it felt like the earth was being wrenched apart.

Jon's hand seized his shoulder in a vice and used it to haul himself up, "We need to go!" He hissed, "Right now!"

"Jon-"

Another even stronger tremor rocked the ground and forced Eddard to use Jon as support now.

"I'll explain everything, but right now, we need to run!" Jon gripped Eddard's shoulders, and stared into his face with pleading eyes, "Please…Father. Trust me."

Eddard gave a slow, single nod.

Jon nodded and grabbed him, "Hold on tight!" He hissed as his eyes burned blue.

"Wait, wha-!" Was all Eddard got out before they sped out of the godswood in a blur of black and grey. Behind them, the godswood _exploded. _Great chunks of earth were thrown into the air and trees were uprooted and knocked aside as a pale shape rose out of the ground. Vast, translucent wings stretched forth to feel the air for the first time in many, many centuries and a booming roar echoed across the North.

The Ice Dragon spread its wings and flapped into the air, flying North.

Towards the Wall.

Towards _home._

* * *

**The reasons why Urrax was under the godswood in the first place will be answered next chapter, but to hopefully lessen the confusion, Ice Dragons melt when they die. That little pool in the godswood beneath the Heart Tree? In this story, that was him. Also throughout the years his melted remains would have been absorbed into the ground so…yeah. Spontaneous resurrection of a dragon that is bigger than Drogon=one destroyed godswood. Also, yes, the Night Queen exists as well, although my concept of her is going to be different from the norm, as you can see. Any questions, review or PM me. I'll be happy to answer any you have! Hope you enjoyed the chapter and see you next time! The next chapter is probably going to take a while to write.**


	16. Chapter 16

Jamie blamed Robert for all this.

If it wasn't for that fat oaf, he wouldn't be trudging across the snow and cobblestones, his bruised chest making it harder and harder to breathe and bear the weight of the northern lord sagging off his shoulder while searching for help. Winterfell was still in a panic and people were still running about; some crying, some shouting, some injured, and some trying to organize the chaos. Those eerie red fires had all gone out, thank the gods, but Jamie kept his eyes peeled for anyone in orange robes. Thankfully, he saw none. Where in the seven hells was Robert? Where in the seven hells was _anyone _from the royal party? Why hadn't anyone sent reinforcements? They had brought scores of armed men with them!

Finally, he came upon a trio of men in Stark livery that were shouting at one another. Jamie yelled out, "You three!" And the northerners all turned to see him hauling Vayon Pool their way and gawked. With a grunt, Jamie unshouldered his burden and handed the lord off to the men. The lord's face was covered in splotchy red burns, fragments of cooled metal had melted into his flesh, and his left eye had been burned shut by a stray bit of molten slag.

"He needs a maester, now!" Jamie barked and then asked, "Where's the King?"

"I-I do not know, ser!" One of them responded shakily.

Jamie scowled and looked around the courtyard that was filled with panicking people. He had not spied a body, and it wasn't like Robert was hard to miss-

"Jamie!"

Jamie turned around and spotted his little brother running towards him as fast as his legs could carry.

"Tyrion!" He called back and rushed to meet him.

Tyrion came to a panting stop in front of him, "J-Jamie-" He panted out, his hands on his knees, "W-what the hells is happening?!" He demanded of the carnage surrounding them.

"Did you run all the way here?" Jamie asked incredulously and looked around for any sign of Tyrion's guards. Not a single man in Lannister livery was seen, and Jamie's scowl threatened to become a snarl at the thought that the men he'd assigned to guard his brother had abandoned him.

Tyrion peered at him owlishly, taking in his battered and scorched appearance, and gaped at him, "What happened to _you_?"

"Not now, brother!" Jamie somehow managed to say with a straight face as he took Tyrion by the arm, spun him around, and pushed him towards the closest exit _out _of this frozen nightmare, "We need horses!" He hissed.

"Brother, what happened!"

"We need to leave!" Jamie hissed as they passed the walls encasing the smoking godswood, "Right now!"

Two things happened in that moment.

First was the dark blur speeding out of the godswood that collapsed in a heap a stone's throw away from them. Jamie instinctually put himself in front of Tyrion when he saw that it was both Lord Stark and that…_thing _picking themselves off the ground.

The second was that the ground began to shake.

It seemed like all of Winterfell was shaking! Snow shook from rooftops and people lost their footing. Tyrion wobbled in place and Jamie nearly fell flat on his ass, his eyes wide as the godswood's walls began to shift and even sag and some places. Great cracks and fissures appeared along parts of the stonework as their foundation was suddenly shifted. Then the roar shook the air, and all eyes turned to see a massive shape rise up from within the smoking godswood. It took a moment for Jamie to realize what he was looking at, but when the wings unfurled, clear as glass and large enough to cover half of Winterfell, his heart caught in his throat and his mind screeched to a stop.

The weak sunlight glinted off the pale turquoise of the creature's icy body as it stretched its gigantic wings and long, spiny neck. Solid blue eyes that shone like the purest of gems snapped open, and narrow jaws parted to unleash another deep, sonorous roar that sent shockwaves through Jamie's body and had his ears ringing. The dragon was so massive that the walls surrounding it only came up to its waist!

For a moment, everyone stared at the impossible sight.

Then the wings spread wider, catching the light in odd ways as they did, and the dragon hopped into the air.

The wings beat once, twice, and the dragon was airborne.

That's when the screaming started. People began running for cover as the ice dragon glided overhead, sending gusts of chilly air and thick snowflakes down upon the castle's inhabitants. Jamie instinctively moved to shield Tyrion, but the dragon passed overhead without a single glance to the puny humans beneath it and flew off into the distance. Another long moment passed where everyone in Winterfell stood in slack-jawed awe and terror as they watched it disappear over the walls and off into the sky.

**XXX**

When the tremors of Urrax's resurrection caught up with Jon, he stumbled and took his father with him. Eddard had fell on all fours while Jon landed onto his side. The Night Prince let out another groan and rolled onto his back to look down at the remnants of his tunic and the angry red burn marring his pale flesh. Confused, he poked the edges of the injury and hissed as fiery agony spread from the touch. The pain vanished as abruptly as it came. The magic of the Others, no, the magic of _Skroth _swirled under his skin and caressed the wound, soothing the burn and dulling the pain until he felt nothing. Jon watched as his inflamed skin faded and cooled before his very eyes until the burn was nothing but a waxy scar in the shape of a handprint.

Yet another scar to add to the collection. Jon closed his eyes. Was it a bad thing that he was growing used to nearly dying?

He remembered trying to escape R'hllor's fire, only to have his mind trapped by the Night King. No light, no sound, no smell, or taste; only frigid cold and blackness. Then, crimson fire had seared his world. The sensation like someone stabbed a red-hot knife into his still beating heart followed, but and then came something worse. It had felt like a hand had grasped hold of everything that was _him, _everything that was Jon Snow, and tried to _crush_ it. Then he had returned to the world of the living, screaming in agony because his father saved him. He did not know what would have happened if R'hllor had succeeded. Hells, he didn't _want _to know, but if the Red God had triumphed…well, nothing good would have come of it. His mind was still intact, still _his, _and that is what mattered most.

What was more, was that he could feel the Other's magic back under his control, or should he say, the magic of _Skroth_. It was _his _now, in the way it had been when he'd fought the Night King within that strange dreamscape of Urrax's mind. He'd taken it for himself, stole it away from the Night King and made it his own.

From beside him, Eddard shifted to look at him.

"Jon?" The lord of Winterfell called.

"I'm here." Jon rasped as he shifted to sit up. He felt Eddard's hand on his shoulder and looked up into the eyes of the man who raised him.

"You're alive…" Jon heard him whisper.

Jon exhaled tiredly and placed his hand on Eddard's, "I am." He said solemnly. His eyes flicked over Eddard's shoulder and narrowed at the crowd that had begun to gather around them. Guardsmen approached then, shoving servants out of the way with spears aimed at Jon's face.

"My Lord! My Lord, get away from that thing!" One of them shouted in a shaky voice. Fat Tom, Jon realized. The man's jowls were quivering with fear as he and the rest of the guards closed in. Their eyes were locked on Jon and all of them, especially the smallfolk, looked absolutely terrified.

"Stop!" Eddard bellowed at them. Everyone flinched at the lord's command.

"Milord-"

"Stop! He means me no harm!" Eddard's gloves tightened around Ice and used the greatsword to help push himself to his feet. He rose tall and strong, and his gray eyes swept over the crowd, hard and unyielding as winter itself, "There has been enough bloodshed today! Let there be no more!"

"But-"

"Enough!" Lord Stark barked.

Jon rose silently to his feet behind Eddard, and everyone backed away at he did…all except two.

The brothers Lannister, Jamie with a newly acquired sword and Tyrion standing by his side, both watching Jon warily. Jamie stepped in front of his brother, blocking him from sight with sword held ready, and Jon found his gaze locked with the emerald green of the knight's. Now that his mind was not fogged by the rage of battle nor influenced by the Night King, Jon could properly take in just how…young they were. Tyrion's face was unscarred, Jamie had two hands, and neither sported beards. They were clean-shaven, faces youthful and unravaged by grief, time, and war. Tyrion was dressed in the red and gold of House Lannister while Jamie was clad in the Kingsguard's gold and white. They looked so different from the friends and allies Jon remembered.

"Still alive, Lord Stark?" Jamie called, still not taking his eyes off Jon.

"Ser Jamie." Eddard responded, "Lord Vayon? Is he-"

"Alive. Handed him off to some of your men." Jamie answered. His eyes still never left Jon, but they narrowed considerably when he asked, "Stark, where is the King?"

Utter silence reigned over the mass gathering at the question.

Ned stiffened at the words and looked at the ground, his face struggling to remain stoic before hardening into resolve, and in that moment, Jon knew he was going to declare the truth, that he had murdered his King, his best friend, in front of all of Winterfell.

Jon's eyes widened and his fists clenched. No, no, no, no! If his father did this, it would be war all over again! The moment Jamie and Tyrion got the chance, they'd get word to Kings Landing and their accursed father, and who knows what that wretch Cersei was up to. Joffrey would demand Eddard's head, and what was worse, he'd be justified for doing so. Tywin would back his grandson and demand reparations from the North. Hells, Stannis and Renly would most likely move to avenge their brother rather than revolt. None of the other Kingdoms would assist the North! As for Lord Stark, Jon knew that his father would let himself be carted off and executed to prevent war, but Robb nor Lady Stark would allow that. It would be war all over again with the North at a supreme disadvantage.

All of that flashed through his mind and Jon felt his lips curl into a snarl. That could not happen. That _will _not happen! Not again! He'd been given a second chance to fix the past, and while his goal was still to finally defeat the Others, he would still going to protect House Stark!

"Dead!" Jon snapped out before Eddard could say anything. Gasps of astonishment filled the air and all attention turned to him. Jon stepped forward, heedless of the panicked look his father shot him, and looked right into Jamie's eyes before declaring, "I killed him."

The stunned silence that followed lasted for about four seconds before exclamations of shock, horror, and fear filled the air. The people looked at him with terror burning in their eyes and hearts alike, and Jon bore it all.

Let them fear him, he thought darkly.

Let their focus be on him instead of his father.

Let them spread word of the monster that had killed the king; a king who had nearly killed Lord Stark in front of all of Winterfell.

"You…you killed the king?" Asked Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf stepped out from behind his brother's legs to stare at Jon in a mix of utter confusion and sheer incredulity. Jamie's grip tightened on his sword when Jon's stare turned to him.

"I did." Jon said with what he hoped was an uncaring shrug. He would never lose himself to the Others hatred of life again, but he did allow the cold apathy of their nature to influence his words. It made it easier for him to lie through his teeth. Well, not entirely lie; all of this was his fault in a way.

If war broke out and the North bled again, it would just tip the scales in the Others favor. Last time, he froze on the Wall while his home and family suffered, but this time, he would bring winter itself unto their enemies! He would guard the Starks from the rest of the Kingdoms and damn anyonewho tried to stop him! He needed to be more, however. This was his fault, and he had to start taking responsibility for his actions. Threats existed on all sides that only he could see. The Others, the Red God and his Priests, and now the rest of Westeros once word of what happened got out!

"And…" Tyrion continued in an admirably level voice, "Who are you?"

The thought made Jon pause.

Who indeed?

He wasn't the Bastard of Winterfell anymore, Jon doubted he could ever be that again. He didn't dare introduce himself as Aegon Targaryen, either. That way lay madness. For a moment, he debated introducing himself as the Night Prince, but cast aside that thought as quickly as it came. Acknowledging that title held worse implications than declaring himself the rightful heir to the throne. Jon's brow furrowed as he thought hard and fast. If he was going to protect his family, he had to make the rest of the Seven Kingdoms pause at the thought of attacking the North. He had power, now, and he intended to use it. He may be one man, but the White Walkers had been feared for a reason. He needed an identity, a title, or a name that would distinguish himself from the Starks, from the Realms of Men, even. The comparison made him ill, but he needed to become what the dragons were to the Targaryens; weapons of war, monsters of destruction, and creatures to be feared. He would portray himself as something that was nigh untamable, something that could not be controlled. Most importantly, he had to be seen separate from House Stark.

His mind suddenly flashed back to what Miranda had shouted at him while holding Bran at knifepoint. The moniker had made no sense to him, but why not? It was rather fitting, in a way.

"Call me Coldhands." Jon declared in a low voice, ignoring the look he felt more than saw his father give him.

Jamie stared at him in incomprehension, and Jon forced himself to sneer at his shocked expression, "Well Kingsguard? I killed the king. Aren't you going to take me prisoner?" He rasped out and lifted his hands in surrender, "I won't fight." He added.

His uncle looked at him, seemingly lost for a moment, and Jon feared that he would still blurt out the truth. It was a mixture of relief and unease that filled Jon when Eddard spoke out in a hard voice that carried, "Take him to the dungeons."

After a moment of pause, the good guardsmen of Winterfell obeyed; their weapons held in shaking hands as they approached him slowly and cautiously with the look of men walking towards a sleeping dragon. They surrounded him in a circle of spears, but none dared touch him as they began to escort him away.

All except one.

Jamie Lannister walked forward then, his sword in hand and eyes locked on Jon's.

"Wait." Jamie told the men, who stopped as the Kingslayer approached. Jamie's eyes swept up and down Jon's form, searching and confused. After a moment, Jamie slowly lifted the sword up and poked the tip against Jon's cheek. The steel froze and broke apart inch by inch as Jamie pressed it into his flesh, and the knight stared from the sword to Jon in a wide-eyed mix of horror and fascination.

"What in the Seven Hells are you?" Jamie swore under his breath.

Jon did not respond and turned to keep walking. His 'escorts' stumbled to keep him surrounded. Their spearheads wobbled in their shaking hands, and Jon shook his head as he damn near led the men to the dungeons. The crowd of servants and smallfolk scattered like rats as he approached, their hearts blazing with fear. Jon ignored their stares and looked north to where Urrax was flying. He had questions, and Bloodraven was going to answer _all _of them.

**XXX**

Asha had been the first to see it.

One minute, the horizon was empty, just the sea and sky stretching off into infinity. Then, she blinked, and the sails were there. Everyone on the Iron Islands knew those sails, and if what she heard was true, half the known world knew them, as well.

_The Silence_ was sailing straight towards Pyke.

She'd watched this from a point high up on the castle, having just been told to prepare the _Black Wind_ for a journey to the other islands to check in with the rebuilding of the Iron Fleet. Of course, she ran back to alert her father, and of course he rallied men to intercept her uncle. Everyone knew Euron had been banished with the price of death for his return. For him to come sailing so brazenly into port was beyond the madness he was infamous for. Asha of course joined her father and their men who rushed out with axes ready for blood. _The Silence_, to their surprise, skipped port entirely and beached herself on the rocky shores directly below the castle.

Asha, her father, her uncles Victarion and Damphair, and their men stomped across the sand towards the red and black ship that shifted from side to side with each wave crashing upon the shore. To their confusion the ship was empty. Not a single one of Euron's mutes or mongrels, or Euron himself could be seen aboard.

"EURON! COME OUT!" Victarion yelled, his face twisted in anger. All knew the history between Victarion and Euron, how Euron raped or seduced (depending on who you asked) Victarion's salt-wife and was banished soon after Victarion beat the woman to death.

For a moment, there was nothing but cold wind blowing salty air off the sea, then all of a sudden, Euron's grinning face was looking down at them from over the prow of _The Silence_.

Asha hadn't seen her uncle in years, but he was a hard man to forget. He looked the same, from his hair, to his well-trimmed beard, but something was wrong. His eyepatch was covering his right eye, rather than his left, and his black eye glinted with something that made her skin crawl.

Euron's grin widened upon seeing them, and he held out his arms wide as if to embrace them all, "Brothers!" He called, "So good to see you again! Praise unto the Drowned God!"

"I thought you'd be rotting under some foreign sea by now, brother." Her father snarled, "Have you come home just to die?"

"Oh, my brothers, you do not understand!" Euron declared and began to cackle and laugh like a wizened old salt-wife. The sight was so out of character that all looked amongst themselves in confusion. Suddenly, the wind turned foul and brought a stench of old, wet rot, low-tide, deep-sea brine, and decay that had all their faces twisting in disgust. Abruptly, Euron leapt over the rails and landed in the surf with a splash. Everyone flinched, and Euron rose, dripping with seawater and arms spreading wide again.

"I come bearing gifts! Gifts for House Greyjoy! Gifts for the Iron Islands! Gifts for all Ironborn! Gifts from the Drowned God!"

"Gifts!? You dare mock our god upon our very shores?" Damphair spat.

"I dare all, brother, but I mock nothing!" Euron laughed, "I bring word from our god to go forth upon a Great Reaving! All of Westeros will be ours! Gather the ships! Gather the men! Gather the-"

"_I_ am Lord of the Iron Islands!" Her father bellowed, "You give no commands here! You are nothing but an exile!"

Something was wrong. Something was very, _very _wrong! Asha knew it in her gut, smelled it on the stench of blood and stink, and saw it in the madness of Euron's black eye and his smile that suddenly seemed to have far too many teeth.

"Oh brother, _you_ are not the lord of the Iron Islands…_he _is!" Euron purred and pointed a single finger out to sea. All followed his finger, and all saw the great longship erupt from the ocean like a breaching whale. The pale hull was covered in barnacles, the tattered grey sails billowed in the wind, and the stink that came from that boat made their eyes water. Euron turned back to them, and in a single move, ripped away his eyepatch so everyone could see his right eye. Where once was a blue, smiling eye was now blood red with everything else black as pitch.

"I COME BEARING GLAD TIDINGS MY BROTHERS!" He yelled as they all stepped back, "I COME WITH A MESSAGE FROM OUR GOD! REAVE, RAPE, PILLAGE, AND BURN! SAIL TO WESTEROS AND TAKE LANNISPORT! HIGHGARDEN! THE ARBOR! OLDTOWN! THE RIVERLANDS AND THE REACH, THE KINGSWOOD AND THE RAINWOOD, DORNE AND THE MARCHES, THE MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON AND THE VALE OF ARRYN, TARTH AND THE STEPSTONES! WINTERFELL AND THE NORTH! TAKE IT ALL! TAKE ALL OF WESTEROS!"

The waters surged around Euron's feet as tall, scaly _things _emerged from the frothing sea. Clutched in their webbed hands were crude weapons of rock, driftwood, and rusty swords, spears, and axes. Out at sea, that great, grey ship drew closer and closer, and Asha saw a pale, yellow light flickering from somewhere upon her deck.

"HAIL TO THE DROWNED GOD!" Euron continued to scream as more and more fishmen came from the water to surround them. Tears of blood were suddenly leaking out of his red eye, and something dark and squirming, like a mass of seaworms, writhed underneath his skin, "HAIL TO THE GREY KING!"

* * *

**On the short side, but I finally got my muse back!**


End file.
